


heart full of headlines

by dantiloquent



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Famous Authors, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Fluff and Angst, Identity, Introspection, M/M, Pining, Slow Burn, Sorry I Just. There's Too Much Introspection., Strangers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-28
Updated: 2016-11-28
Packaged: 2018-09-02 21:35:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 59,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8684185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dantiloquent/pseuds/dantiloquent
Summary: Phil Lester has a lot of good things: supportive friends, a lovely dog, a world tour, a famous writing blog.He also has magic. It shouldn't be a problem - except, in a world where magic is hated and mocked, it is. After a disastrous run in with Guardian-acclaimed "Modern Beat Generation Boy" Dan Howell ends in an unexpected friendship, Phil finds himself having to make more and more choices. While his blog sends him all over the world, and while their friendship develops, Phil can't help but bring it all back to one pivotal issue: who can he tell?-title from "letters from yorkshire" by maura dooley.   you out there, in the cold, seeing the seasons  turning, me with my heartful of headlinesfeeding words onto a blank screen.





	1. before

**Author's Note:**

> hello! this was written for pbb 2016!! between this and my other fic, syzygy, i wrote about 120k this summer. oh boy. it was a lot of work. i'm so glad it's finally out for you to read!! i really hope you enjoy this!! also, if you liked details of an asteroid, you should like this. i think this is a New and Improved version. with a totally different plot. but still.
> 
> for a full set of notes, please see [here! also reblog here if you wanna support me and my work!](http://dantiloquent.tumblr.com/post/153788091631/heart-full-of-headlines)
> 
> see the gorgeous art for this [here!](http://pinofs.tumblr.com/)
> 
> [come say hi on tumblr!](http://dantiloquent.tumblr.com/)
> 
> (btw sorry for the odd formatting sometimes, ao3 does it to my italics and i didn't have time to edit it all! it's not intentional, and i hope it doesn't hinder your experience too much. i hope to rectify it some day soon, though.)
> 
> disclaimer: while it sounds like i'm trying to preach about things that may also exist in real life, i really didn't mean to spread some agenda/lesson through this. you can take what you want from this, but please don't think i believe every single thing discussed in this book. while it may sound like it should, lots of this doesn't apply to the real world. you'll see what i mean once you've read this.
> 
> if you see any errors/typos, don't hesitate to let me know! thank you all!
> 
> this work has been loosely inspired by the bbc's _merlin_ and [this fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/387876). a good show and a good fic, check them out. all actual writing is my own (similarities with other pieces of work are accidents, that's what happens with these cliches and tropes. sorry in advance.)

_Manchester, June, 2012_

Phil Lester watches his career begin from the comfort of his small, crooked flat in a less crooked area of Manchester; witnesses it unfold on his laptop screen, the figures jumping with each refresh of the page.

Outside, it is raining for the first time in ten days, and everyone is buzzing from it behind closed doors. Dusk sits on the horizon, the sun sliding down its back. The air is thick with the smell. The flowers on the windowsill opposite bow their heads, hiding their smiles behind fringes of water. Above him, his own window is cracked open, and the draught spins around his head. Phil uses it as justification for the jumper he’s wearing. He hasn’t worn it since March; it’s baggy and woolen, and caves down at the point between his chest and neck.

His laptop sits, askew, on the desk in front of him, _A DEER AND AN OIL LAMP_ open. And for the past hour he’s leant back in his chair - legs crossed, fingers crossed over his coffee mug, almost cross eyed from looking at the screen, he’s sure - and watched the total hits on his site increase.

Until now, he’s always put more love and hours into his writing blog than he’s got out of it, but he’s never stopped using it; at the least, it is the perfect place to keep all his thoughts, the ones too swollen and jagged. He takes pride in it the same way an amateur gardener must take pride in their orchid: quietly, gently, secretly, but the time taken to coax it into being never discredited.

His stuff is obscure, personal, surreal, raw - nothing that immediately sells, he knows. He knows that audiences take a lot of convincing and sampling in order to fall in love with this kind of writing. He never expected it to happen with his work. His meanings are too buried, his words too long or too short, his descriptions flowering into florid. Nothing the casual reader would want to read.

Until now.

Why _A DEER AND AN OIL LAMP_ is any different, Phil doesn’t know. He can’t even comprehend what’s happening to make the hits accrue so rapidly. A whole lot of sharing on Twitter and Facebook, surely - but did people really do that? Apparently so, because his work has never been recognised before, but now his blog is proverbially and virtually thriving. _How does the Internet even work? How do people even get famous? It’s happening to me right now and I have no clue._ God, Phil has never felt older. And he’s only 25. And one can hardly call this “fame”.

Still, when the number crosses into five figures - small, yes, but large for him, and it’s only been a number of hours - Phil’s smile bites deep into his cheeks. Closing the tab, he sits back and basks in it for one disgustingly self-absorbed moment.

“I did it, Minton,” Phil calls. “I hit 10k hits.”

Minton says nothing. Phil twists his head to look at him, barely remembering to hold his mug steady. Minton huffs, rolls over onto his other side, before huffing again and slinking away. To be fair to him, Minton is a dog, so Phil forgives him for his silence.

“Yeah, well,” he says, “we can’t all have as high standards as you.”

-

_London, August, 2016_

“Pass me that mug, would you, Minton?” Phil asks, waving his right hand in a rough direction.

Minton grunts, giving Phil a look before slipping away into another room.

“I’ll do it myself, then,” Phil sighs; an outstretched hand, fingers and thumb curved into a semicircle; a mutter grated between teeth; a spike of gold in his irises. The mug flies into his hands. Checking the clock seated at the base of his computer screen, Phil shuts the laptop lid and stands. He gathers up the selection of used crockery and carries it through to the kitchen before dumping it all into his sink. Another flash of gold, and a plate rises into the air, levitating under a jet of tap water as a brush scrubs at it. Phil leaves the room, safe in the knowledge that he lives four floors up - away from wandering eyes.

He meanders about his apartment, collecting his phone, bag, and keys. He has twenty minutes until his meeting, and Gwen’s scheduled it for just before rush hour hits: he’ll get there in good time, and if he’s not, it’s no worry. Gwen always receives him with an unravelling smile, no matter the state he’s in.

He’s in his bathroom (bent over the mirror, smoothing down his dampened hair, a thumbnail scratching at a bathroom tile gilded by limescale) when a clarion crash resonates out from the kitchen. “Shit,” he hisses, racing along the hallway and clinging onto the kitchen door frame to stop himself flying into the oven. His collection of plates and mugs are lined up on the table, no damage done. He expels a long breath. “Good work, guys,” he says, and dismisses them to their correct cupboards with a wave of his hand and an exhaled spell.

Phil yells goodbye to Minton and locks the door, unlocking it again seconds later to grab his bag and nod to Minton like nothing is amiss before locking it for good.

-

He’s hardly a minute late. Breaths heavy as he pushes against the glass door, he waves to Michelle, the agency’s receptionist. She smiles back at him - the shape warped by the phone pressed to her cheek - and gestures to him to head up the stairs. Nodding in recognition, he does as he’s told, and finds the door at the far end of the landing propped open for him when he reaches the summit. Jake and Lily must have clients in, too, for their office doors are shut to him as he passes.

“Hello?” He sticks his head around the door, “I’m looking for someone with an angel complex and foolproof optimism, have you seen them?”

Client photos stare back at him as he peers around, backed up by a blinding view of London. Dusk is drifting in, and the sun is heavy in the sky, so the city stings from a sunlight like antiseptic. In the centre lies the desk, uncluttered and organised; behind it, a row of filing cabinets labelled with letters of the alphabet. Gwen has a lot of clients, and a lot of work to do for each one, but she does it all so effortlessly, so seamlessly, that Phil wonders how she makes the working day last.

Not that he doesn’t appreciate it - Phil will be endlessly thankful to Gwen. He’s worked with her since he moved to London, when his work started trending, when the attention and the comments and the love started totting up into alphabet-block towers. Phil’s blood was made of soda in those days, he’s sure: his step always accompanied by a spring, his clouds more silver than grey, words rolling off his tongue and onto his fervent fingers. His paradise had come early. With it, though, came shock, an instability. Gwen quelled that anxiety, sorted his workload and expectations into manageable lumps so he didn’t have to. The thought of finding a different agent has never crossed his mind.

Sweeping her curls off the frame of her glasses, Gwen looks up from her computer and smiles at him like he’s a stranger. “What a coincidence! I’m looking for a guy with an alien for a head and an irreproachable ability to be late to meetings. Maybe we can help each other out?”

Phil crosses the boundary, unhooks his bag off his shoulder, and sits down in the chair opposite her. “At least mine was _kind_ ,” he grumbles.

Gwen’s smile softens, becomes more authentic on her face as the act is lost. “I’m sorry, love, but this is a tough business. Kill or be killed.”

“Thinking of going into acting, then?” Phil leans back in his seat and plays with the bowl of wrapped mints Gwen leaves on her desk, ignoring the notice _for visitors_ that she left for his benefit.

“Exactly.” Gwen finishes typing and spins in her chair so she can see him better. “And maybe I love aliens and poor punctuality, anyway?”

Phil shrugs, petulant. “You could, I don’t know you.”

“Well, I do.” Her dark skin glows in the August summer, her blouse bunches in ripples around her shoulders. Her eyes, when they meet his, nurse a maternal type of reassurance. Phil has always felt like she’s a younger version of himself: in reality, she’s a year older, but she’s always smiling. Grin like that, Phil told her once, and she could get a free bus ticket. (Gwen had flushed and punched him in the arm.)

Phil finds his smile again. “Good. You wanted me?”

“Yeah.” Never one to reach the point straight away, Gwen folds her hands in her lap and catches his gaze in her own, saying, “How’s _Jelly Hearts_ going?”

“Alright, yeah.” Phil nods. A couple of months ago, his publishing agency, after considering the zenith of his success, commissioned him to write a novel of the same tone as his blog posts. A surreal work, then, “like real life but more,” he’ll tell anyone who will listen. “A few ups and downs, I’m not one hundred percent sure of a direction yet, but it’s good.” In reality, there are more downs than ups, but it’s always like that with writing, and Phil’s motivation rests in optimism. He just needs a distraction, a new offer of inspiration.

“You’re nervous for it?”

“Of course I am. I always am.”

Gwen nods like she’s heard it before. (She has. Phil never stops telling her.) “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure you don’t make a clown of yourself. But, honestly, all the good stuff comes from you. You’ve nothing to worry about.”

Smiling like he can never hear that enough, Phil says, “Do we have a deadline yet?”

Gwen rolls her eyes. “You know we don’t like deadlines here.”

“Yes, I _know_ , but you hardly want me finishing in 2020. I need something to aim for, Gwen,” he implores, one cheek bulging with a glacier mint.

“If you’re confident, aim for Christmas. Santa practically sells things for you. If not - well. I dare say this won’t be appropriate for Valentines’, will it?”

“With all the unreality and soft gore? Nah.”

“That’s the perfect tag line,” Gwen comments.

Phil shrugs, placing another sweet in his mouth. “You’re the publicist.”

“I’m going to take one pound off your income for every mint you steal from me, I swear to God.”

Widening his eyes, Phil warns, “You wouldn’t.”

Gwen shrugs, the complacent, virtuous smile she wears perfected. “I’m the publicist.”

Phil grumbles, “I’m your _friend_ ,” but doesn’t pursue it.

“I’ve confirmed the final venue for your book tour,” she tells him, rustling through the paper on her desk to pull out a printed email, with a screenshot of the venue’s website attached, and sliding it across to Phil. “I got you one in Prague, like you wanted.”

Phil eyes the place, an ornate building to match Europe’s diadem of a city, with intricate masonry and smooth pillars either side of the door. “Thank you.”

“So we’ve got seven stops in the US, two in Canada, two in Australia, then finishing in Europe with nine stops. Everything good?”

“Absolutely.” His face can’t contain his excitement. It fizzes in his stomach, his leg bouncing up and down, and he thanks Gwen once, twice.

“It’s no problem, Phil, it’s my _job_ ,” Gwen replies. “I’m glad you’re happy,” she adds, and she smiles before her eyes duck to the table and her lips tighten.

“But…” Phil prompts.

“Well, sales haven’t been _brilliant_ recently - you’re selling, but there’s been no new content, so. Well. You need publicity, and decent accommodation, and we can afford it, but higher powers think we could do more to help you keep going until your book comes out.”

“So…” Phil releases the email and it floats down onto the table. He narrows his eyes in thought, and is only half doing it for Gwen’s benefit. He doesn’t know what to expect from the second half of this - she could say anything, and he can only assume the worst.

“ _So_ , you were invited to that writing con in LA at the end of this month. You’ll get paid, so we’ve accepted it -”

“Is that it?” Phil slumps back in his chair with a theatrical sigh of relief. “ _Christ_ , Gwen, you made it sound so dire! Like I had to sell my body! Not like that,” he addresses Gwen’s raised eyebrows and slack mouth. “ _Not like that_. I didn’t mean that. This got weird,” he admits.

“Yeah...You’ll have to do a meet and greet on the first day, and there’s a couple of panels lined up for you.”

“On?”

“One on the use of narrative and plots in modern lit, whether there are cliches and if that’s okay, that kind of thing. The other on pop culture and its influences in a number of different genres. Basic stuff.”

“I take it we don’t know who else will be on these panels?”

“TBC. You’ll go straight to your first venue at the end of the second day. It’ll be tiring, if anything. So, you’re not mad?” She looks at him askew, managing to still look guilty as she does it, biting her lip and tugging at the neckline of her shirt.

“Why would I be?” Phil frowns.

“You’re pretty, but you’re no social butterfly.”

“Gwen, I’m doing a world tour after this. I can hardly be angry.”

“You never know with these writer types,” Gwen teases, but relaxes.

With a flourish of his hand, Phil conjures a blooming flower, and passes it to her across the desk. “A token of my thanks.”

“ _Phil_ , for God’s sake,” Gwen laughs, slapping his wrist before plucking it from his fingers. “You shouldn’t have!”

“It costs me nothing.”

“No, as in, you really shouldn’t have, someone could see!”

“The door’s, er, _shut_ , Gwen.”

She rolls her eyes. “Okay, I hate boys making magical flowers out of nowhere and giving them to me. You’re my worst nightmare and I’d like you to leave my office right now.”

Slowly, Phil stands, bending over to pick up his bag, and grins at her. “Meeting over?”

“Almost.” Kicking her chair back, she picks up a pile of magazines and offers them up to him. _The Sauceror_ splays across its front in Alice In Wonderland font, a comic Phil can’t be bothered to read sitting below it, detailed with speech bubbles and pointy hats. It’s a typical sight when it comes to the satirical magazine: a popular media made purely to mock the magical community. “Want them?”

“Sure.” He waits for Gwen to lift them higher. Once they’re in his direct line of sight, his eyes flash gold, and a fluorescent pink flame bursts from the centre. The glossy pages disappear in a matter of seconds. “You’re a hypocrite,” he says.

Gwen grins at him, and nods.

“I’ll text you.” He heads for the door.

“You better, Lester,” she replies, fingers gripping the desk to haul herself back to her computer.

“When do I not?”

Gwen shrugs a shoulder. “Hope the novel writing goes well. I’ll get the travel info to you ASAP.”

“Thanks, Gwen. See you.”

“See you. Now, go, I’m a busy woman!”

“You could’ve fooled me,” he quips, and laughs at the kiss she sarcastically blows his way before the door shuts behind him.

-

Two weeks later, London is reposing in a light drizzle as Phil packs up his belongings. He chooses and folds his clothes himself, but he has a habit of not shutting drawers and doors behind him, so does so with a sweep of his hand and a muttered spell. A song is rippling out of a speaker next to his bed, ubiquitous and subtle. Extra time is taken deciding which case each item belongs in - one case will be sent ahead to the tour bus, the other he’ll keep with him at the convention - but he sets about the task happily, enjoying its mundane solace.

Half five in the evening, and there’s an obnoxious knock on his door. Dropping a pair of jeans onto his bed, Phil hurries to the door and opens it. “Jack,” he greets, with a smile and gesture inviting him in.

“Phil,” Jack replies, in the same formal tone. Though dampened by the rain, his blond hair continues to stick up from his forehead; tiny sugar grains of rain cover the lenses of his glasses, and he wipes them carelessly with two fingers as he shrugs off his jacket and kicks off his shoes. “How’s packing going?” He follows Phil back up the stairs to his bedroom.

“Good, fine. I don’t _think_ I’ve forgotten anything,” Phil looks over the separate piles of belongings placed on his mattress, and gives a wide sweep of his hand. “Do you want something to eat? Drink?”

“Nah, mate, you’re alright. Charger?”

“What?”

“Have you packed your charger? And your adaptors?”

“Ah, no.” Phil laughs before scurrying across to find a spare in the mess of his electronics drawer. He leaves it open - Jack closes it for him.

“Thank you, twice over,” Phil says. Jack does know about the magic, does know Phil could have done it himself. Jack’s just a man of habit and respectful chivalry.

“ _De rien._ I came over to ask about your fucking house plants.” Jack jerks his head towards Phil’s windowsill, where a quarter of Phil’s collection cast fronded shadows on the white paint.

“What about them?” Phil pouts, stroking a particularly broad leaf of a plant on the far right.

“You need to water them, Phil. You _asked_ me to water them,” Jack reminds him harshly, but cracks a wide, wonky grin.

“Yes! Thank you. I can give you the spare key now?”

“That’d be best.” Phil registers his reply and sets off to find it. “You don’t have a convenient flower pot outside your door to hide it under.”

“All the plants, but none of the tools,” Phil agrees, raising his voice from the office room next door.

“Some would say that’s a bad situation to be in.”

Phil returns and drops the key into Jack’s open palm. “They would, yes. I might agree, some days.”

“Only in secret, of course.”

“Of course. So. Cacti need watering once or twice a week, depending on hot weather.” Jack snorts, raising his eyebrow at the clouded glass. “Exactly. More’s needed on the hot days. The rest need it every two or three days. The one in the hall needs periods of dry soil, though, so watch out for that.”

“Got it.”

“If you see any stray cats, don’t let them in. I’m allergic.”

“Not even the cute ones?”

“Allergies don’t relent for anyone, Jack. It’s the harsh reality of life.”

“Write a book about that and see if it sells.”

Phil huffs a laugh. “Maybe I should. As good an idea as I’ve got so far, anyway.”

Clapping him on the back, Jack says, “You’ll get there, mate, you always do. Unfortunately for me.”

Phil wrinkles his nose at the insult and swats him away. “I rely on you in times of need.”

“Of course. When are you back?”

“Two or three months.”

“Christ, that’s time for me to host, like, ten house parties, and not have a permanent hangover.”

“I know,” Phil says, feeling a pail of homesickness overturn in his stomach.

“If you fancy more travelling after all that, I’m going to New Zealand in eight months or so.”

“Really? What for?”

“I got that film deal, didn’t I?” Jack’s mirth glistens all over his face like morning dew, dressed in a quintessential smile. Jack makes it a habit to toy the line between cockiness and pride, and he does it well.

“You did? That’s amazing!”

“It’s pretty cool, yeah,” Jack figures, causing him to laugh, loud, while Phil rolls his eyes.

“Why are you inviting _me_? I know nothing about film, and surely there’s some limits to your power.”

“I’m the director.” Jack lifts and drops a shoulder. “I am The Power.”

“ _T_ _he_ Power? And you choose me?”

“You and a few others, if they’re up for it, yeah. I have a say over the production and cast, and you’ve a way with words, Phil.”

“Well,” Phil hastens to disagree, dipping his head. His fingers toy with the discarded pair of jeans.

“You’re going on a world tour, I’m taking no bullshit from Humble McLester today. If you want, you can come. And, if you’ll pardon me saying, it’s in New fuckingZealand. With me. What’s not to love?”

“The spiders?” Phil offers.

“Apart from the spiders, what’s not to love?”

Closing his eyes, Phil exhales heavily through his nose, and finally acquiesces with a nod. “It does sound pretty good, yes.”

“It’s up to you, but the offer’s there.”

“Thank you, Jack, I really appreciate it.”

“I know you do, you’re too modest, that’s why. But even I must agree that I’ve been the real hero today.”

Smacking his shoulder, Phil tells him, “Yes, I’m forever in your debt, Sir. Now, please, go away.”

“You’re kicking me out?” Jack laments, puffing out his chest as Phil begins to crowd him out of the door.

“My flight is at four am tomorrow and I haven’t sorted out my socks yet.”

“Fair. You’ll show me to the door?”

“You know where it is.” Phil wildly points down the stairs.

“Etiquette doesn’t _care_ , Phil.”

Again, Phil sighs, wondering how it’s possible that he ever has any air left to breathe when Jack’s around if he’s always exhaling it out in despair, and tells him as such, adding, “And fine, I’ll show you to the bloody door.”

-

The flight over to LA doesn’t ever get any shorter, so when their taxi pulls up at the hotel hosting the convention, Phil’s head is leaning against Gwen’s, all height-differences set aside. It was an overnight flight, allowing him to sleep on the plane, and it’s approximately six PM in the UK right now, so his jetlag isn’t awful _yet_ , but he knows feeling like death will only get closer as the day unravels. They couldn’t get him a hotel room for the day before, which means it’s day 1 - which means he has a meet and greet, with a duration of three hours, and a panel. Which means his chances of collapsing are High on the Phil Lester Scale Of Doom.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Gwen chides him, dragging her suitcase over the rugged ground much more successfully than Phil does. “They’ve got coffee machines. I’ll keep your levels high.”

Phil can see the crowds from here. The foyer of the hotel is made of glass, and it sits down a long slope. The queues are inert but for a few shuffling feet, the myriad colours of the people’s hair and clothes making a swarming mass of crows’ wings. Phil swallows and squeezes the handle of his case tighter.

“True,” he accepts. Gwen leads him down a path that will take them to the backstage entrance - away from the swarm of people, thank God - and he follows, walking by her side. “It only works if it’s good coffee, though.”

“I’ll try.”

“You’re my agent, Gwen, not Jesus. You turn stories into books, not water into coffee that isn’t shit.”

Holding a door open with her foot, Gwen removes her sunglasses and tells him, “That was some beautiful poetry, Phil. Have you ever considered going into creative writing?”

Phil throws her a look and transforms it into a cordial greeting for the pair of security guards walking towards them.

“You guys know where you’re going?” one asks.

“Hotel and then meeting room one,” Gwen replies. “I’m half there.”

“Ah, that’s easy, for the hotel you just walk that way,” he twists his arm to point down the corridor, “and keep walking. You’ll get to a staircase. Red carpet, predictable, easy to spot. The meeting rooms are signposted from there.”

“Thank you,” Phil says.

“No problem,” he says, and his silent companion smiles at them both. “See you around.”

-

As the guard said, finding the hotel is easy enough. An escalator and a set of three steps takes them to their adjacent rooms; a simple but pleasing affair: cream carpets, double bed, two lamps, a wooden desk painted white, a wardrobe - the same colour, and, to the side, an ensuite with a shower and a deep bath. Phil dumps his case on the bed and hurries to smooth down the pristine sheets; next ducking into the bathroom with a comb he stuffed in his travel bag, he sorts out his mess of hair, finds a clean set of clothes to change into, realises he now needs to tidy his hair again, and finally emerges to meet Gwen.

“It’s not the best arrangement. I know that and I’m sorry,” Gwen comments, smoothing down a wrinkle in her blouse. “But this is only a low-key event, hardly ComicCon.”

Phil snorts, “ _Low-key ._ ” He can hear the hubbub from here, spiralling up along corridors and through windows until the plosives gnaw at his ears.

“It’s not ComicCon,” Gwen repeats, kindly, as she ties her hair up in a ponytail.

“I don’t suppose my work would ever qualify for ComicCon,” Phil says as they set off down the corridor.

“Of course it does. Give it a year or two, and maybe a feature film.” Gwen presses the down button for the lift, and it lights up in a halo of white around her finger.

“Poems don’t make films, Gwen.”

“No, but bestselling novels do.” The lift doors shudder open - the inside is coated with a red carpet that creeps up onto the walls, and Phil stares into his own gaze. The mirror is severed in two by a hand rail. Gwen casts a knowing grin at him in the reflection; he cocks an eyebrow in return, ignoring the stutter of blood in his cheeks. “What’s it to be, Christmas or Valentines’?”

“Sometime in between,” Phil answers, stepping in and blocking the door with his arm. “You coming?”

Gwen says, “I have to, don’t I?” and goes to stand beside him. Phil removes his arm, the lift offers a lilting, _“doors closing,”_ and the lift jolts down. After a few moments of silence, Gwen says, “I know you won’t have much time to write during this tour, and that’s okay. I don’t want you to overwork yourself, or beat yourself up, or any of the other foolish things you tend to do. Rest time is for rest, yeah?”

Phil bows his head. “What if I get a really good idea?”

“Then you write it down, you twat. But none of that,” here, her voices goes robotic, “‘I must write five thousand words a day’ crap, okay? It’s -”

“Crap,” Phil finishes, while the lift doors open again. No one in the lobby is listening to him to give him a disapproving look, except for Gwen, and she just looks proud. “Don’t worry, I’ll be good.”

“You always are,” Gwen sighs, squeezes his shoulder, and subsequently tugs him out after her.

“What does that mean?”

“It means you should be quiet and help me find your damn meetup.” Gwen cranes her neck, looking around. “Can you see any signs?”

“What, is it hard to see from down there?” Phil teases, but follows suit. “Maybe we should ask for help?”

“No way. I’m a qualified adult. A professional.”

“We have twenty minutes.”

“A _professional,_ Phil.”

-

It takes a few extra minutes, but they manage to find the correct hall without any external help, and they have time to find a water cooler and coffee dispenser (not in the same place, alas) while Phil scoops his nerves together and pushes them aside.

The hall is cavernous, the roof arching away until Phil’s eyes start to strain; the metal ceiling is corrugated like a rib cage, and noise palpitates in its echo, a thrumming mess of beats. Behind a line of black screens, people fill the spaces between the plastic fences; Phil isn’t a household name by any means, but this is a large crowd, larger than any he’s ever seen before - he dares to peek out behind the screen and can’t even see the end of the line - and larger than he’ll see again for the rest of his tour. The convention hadn’t seemed like a big deal, just a pit stop to make the next months work, but now the sting of voices flips that attitude on its head. The hall is large enough to erase any uncomfortable stenches, but the LA heat blankets everything. Phil still accepts a coffee from Gwen, though. His eyes already feel like they may drop out and roll away, he’s so tired.

“You okay?” Gwen asks him, squeezing his wrist.

“Yeah, yeah,” Phil mutters. His body is trembling - half from fear, half from excitement.

They head back to Phil’s station. Phil finishes his coffee with a gulp and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

“They’re ready for you now,” Gwen informs him as she appears behind him. “You look fine.”

Phil blinks. “I didn’t ask.”

“I know.” Gwen gives him a quick hug - a comforting pinch at his waist when she loops her arms round him. “Only three hours to go!”

“Only three hours,” Phil agrees, and smiles at her once before pushing past the screen.

-

Unluckily for Phil, the coffee Gwen gives him, although it looks convincing enough, is shit, and does nothing for his energy levels. As much as he loves meeting readers, as much as he enjoys talking to them and consuming split seconds of their stories, he cannot dispel the drooping, withering feeling that accrues with the minutes. By the end of it, he needs a new set of clothes, a shower, and a nap.

“You have time for none of those things,” Gwen says, with little apology in her voice, as she hustles him out of the hall and down a long, bare-boned corridor.

“But I feel fucking _awful_ ,” Phil objects, rubbing his right eye with the heel of his hand. This was always destined to be a trainwreck.

“But you only half look it.” Gwen uses the same disgruntled whine Phil did, and he aims a flimsy slap at her arm. He misses.

“This is Hell.”

“Hell doesn’t care if you need a shower. Hell cares about schedules, and you have a panel on,” she checks her notebook, “ _T_ _he Hero’s Journey: the use of narrative in the modern day_. You don’t have time, unless you can wash in three minutes and _not_ fall asleep.”

“Well-”

Gwen throws a look around her, then dares to whisper, “Don’t you know any healing spells? Or something to tidy your physical appearance, at least?”

“I’m too tired to do anything serious, Gwen, they’re not exactly common nature to me! I try to avoid it whenever possible,” he hisses back.

“And I appreciate that! But it’s either that or stop complaining!”

“I’m genuinely too drained to help myself not be drained. But.” Sighing, he mutters a short spell under his breath - something his uncle taught him, when he was ten and forever in his mother’s bad books for poor personal upkeep.

Gwen eyes him up and down as his hair straightens out and his clothes settle down, creaseless once more. “Better. Thank you.”

“That coffee was shit.”

She pats his shoulder. “I know, love. Have another, and put a brave face on, yeah?” She reveals another paper cup and presses it into his hand.

“You kept that hidden.”

“I thought I’d fend off all complaints first.”

Phil raises his eyebrows, grumbles, “Well, fair enough,” and takes a gulp of the bitter coffee, forcing it down. “Where are you taking me?”

“Somewhere to hide your body, if you keep up this attitude.”

“ _Christ_ , to think I used to describe you as kind.”

“Sorry.” Gwen bites her lip. “Assembly hall 2.”

“That…” Phil shakes his head. “Means nothing to me.”

Gwen lets go of a teasing laugh and guides him down another corridor, this one lined with doors. “I didn’t think it would.”

-

“You’re talking crap,” he says, pointedly ignoring the _please note that some audience members are under 18_ note propped up on the table in front of him, too tired to care that he’s interrupting some pretentious kid who must think he’s so _unique_ and _revolutionary_ that he can insult the literary world’s classics. He's not in the mood for that. He has a whole collection of reasons why he’s disgruntled, and will never stop using these as justification for his outburst. If the convention hates him - well, they should have kept their guests supplied with reliable caffeine. His feet ache, there’s a swelling weight in his head, and his favourite childhood author is being insulted. He barely feels like himself. He barely registers the idiot’s face as he twists to face Phil, who’s barely spoken the past half an hour, with a look of surprise and entertainment. Phil decides that _he_ can be the one he takes his anger out on. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

“Um,” the panel moderator begins. She can’t continue for the yells and heckles that detonate in the audience, as if Phil is immolating this guy, not interrupting him during an analytical debate. “Mr Lester, do you have something you have to say to Mr Howell here?”

Phil wasn’t listening to the other panelists’ names when they were introduced, and he couldn’t care less now who this guy is, just that he’s wrong. “Yeah, actually, I do. You can’t bring _Tolkien_ into this, of all people. The man’s a genius!”

“How? I could’ve plotted his stories when I was 12!”

“His world-building skills are beyond incredible!” Phil retaliates, fist crushing his plastic water bottle. Gwen’s going to have his head later, but it’s too late.

“What, because he threw in some fairy words and people with large feet? Some _hocus pocus_ and voodoo shit? He was one adjective away from having witches with pointy hats and cats that spoke. His _trees_ spoke.” A titter ripples through the crowd.

“Those were part of the universe he set his stories in,” Phil fights back, assembling the perfected look of nonchalance towards Howell’s outright disdain for magic - he’s had years to get it right, after all.

“Anyone can do that. His plot, though, God, I’ve never seen something more predictable in my life.” Howell slouches back in his chair, mouth slick with complacency.

“ _Predictable?”_ Phil cries, and coughs, cringing at the high octave his voice has taken.

“Predictable underdog as a predictable hero, predictable sidekick, predictable battle between good and evil, and finally a predictable triumph for good.”

“It was less predictable when he wrote it, back when the fantasy genre wasn’t worked to death.”

“Now _that’s_ crap. Why are you defending him? The best part of those books is Frodo’s doomed love for Sam, and Tolkien likely didn’t even intend for that.”

“Those bestseller charts disagree.”

Howell regards him with brief shock, his jaw slack with a smile, as if his mere look could make Phil blush from his own idiocy. “What kind of stuff do you write?” He asks this as if it is not for his own interest, but for the interest of his argument - perhaps he has read Phil’s work, then, or at least knows who he is. If only Phil could say the same about him.

“Poetry. Surrealism.”

“Then why on Earth are you defending _The Hero’s Journey_ narrative? That’s literally all The Lord of the Rings is, and you, of all people, should hate it.”

“Okay, no, that narrative is awful, but the Tolkien universe makes it into something else,” Phil insists, recalling the awe his small, teenage heart had for those novels.

Howell snorts. “What, so he adds a bit of sorcery and some old wives’ tales, and all his literary sins are forgiven?”

Phil literally doesn’t know what Howell’s talking about. Howell doesn’t know what he’s saying. Tolkien’s works are masterpieces, some of the greatest, most lovable stories the world has to offer. The type of narrative used is irrelevant, as long as he pulls it off, and Tolkien did more than that. He says as such, finishing, “There are no sins to forgive! He certainly does not use magic to make his work readable.”

Dan cocks an eyebrow. He tilts his head towards Phil. “Some might say _you_ need some black magic to make your work readable.”

Refusing to go quietly, Phil opens his mouth to speak, to combat the low blow - lower than Howell knows, and it’s staying that way - with _what a brilliantly unique insult_ or something lame like that. He may be pissed off and his pride may be at stake, but he’s still jetlagged. But then, perhaps luckily for him, the moderator cuts him off, and another panelist starts discussing the use of the unreliable narrator and Gothic murders. Phil slinks back in his chair and tries to rest without making it look like Howell’s comments have shaken him.

-

“What the fuck were you thinking?” Gwen demands. Or, more, hisses at him through the bathroom door as he changes for his long-awaited shower. He locked the door to his hotel room, but when Gwen started threatening to break it down with all her furious knocking, he figured it was better to let her in than let her get them both in their neighbours’ bad books. Sometimes magic has its uses, and he didn’t even have to leave the bathroom when he signed his death warrant.

Phil winces as he undoes his belt. Gwen hardly ever swears. “Honestly, Gwen, I haven’t had a coherent thought since I left England.”

“Don’t guilt me, Lester, you must have known what you were doing! Do you even know who he was?”

“As I said, Gwen, I really wasn’t thinking at all.”

“I don’t know how you could have failed to recognise the face of a literary celebrity, Phil.”

“He can’t have done that well, if he was on that panel.” Phil pulls a face in the mirror. His eyes are supported underneath by a livid purple; his fringe is splitting apart in three separate places.

“Well, surprise, it was Dan Howell. Dan bloody Howell, Phil! You _interrupted_ Dan Howell, and asked him who the hell he thought he was! Dan Howell! And that was only in your opening statement!”

The name rings a bell, but Phil can’t place it. “Who?”

“Dan Howell.”

Phil sighs forcefully as he pulls off his shirt. “You’ve said his name enough times for him to appear in my mirror, Gwen. Who is he, other than some pretentious writer who assaults innocent panelists?”

Gwen starts listing achievements, “Existentialist fiction writer -”

“So he is pretentious, then.”

Gwen bashes the door again to silence him. “New York Times bestseller, Britain’s hottest man according to Sugarscape in 2015.”

Phil snorts. “Not hot enough for me, clearly.”

“You just insulted the nation’s sweetheart.”

“I thought _I_ was the nation’s sweetheart,” Phil grumbles, frowning.

“Not anymore.” Gwen sighs. “Mean anything to you?”

Phil scratches his head. “Not really, no. I’m still stuck on how in hell he gets to be Britain’s Hottest Man, honestly.”

“ _Our Diadem? Through My Eyes? Roses Gone By June?_ Ring a bell? Because they should: they’re all best sellers.”

Turns out they do ring a bell. Phil can remember Jack recommending the latter to Phil, saying a friend wrote it and that it was, in every way, incredible. But then, Jack quintessentially recommended any book his friends wrote, and Phil wasn’t persuaded completely. Still, he hasn’t been living under a rock for the last few years. He leans forward, head against the door, and thinks. It takes a few moments, but then memories of newspaper reviews (he doesn’t read them _just_ to see reviews of his own work, he has interests in the literary world, shut up Jack) of _Roses Gone By June_ float up from the fog: Howell’s new release being the _On The Road_ of the modern day, Orwell resurrected on our book shop shelves, and other words of praise any author or poet would die to hear.

Phil edges open the door. Gwen stares at him through the crack, only looking half furious. “The Guardian-acclaimed modern Beat Generation boy?”

“That is the term they’ve coined for him, yes. Amongst others.”

“I regret nothing,” Phil announces, insistent, but slams the door shut again. Hemay be tired enough to argue with Dan Howell, but he'll never be tired enough to make the foul move of arguing with Gwen. "He had it coming."

“Maybe he did, Phil, but not in front of a hall of fans! All of whom have blogs and Twitter accounts.”

“Yes, okay, maybe I regret that now, but he insulted Tolkien! I couldn’t care less if he has fans.”

“Your priorities are messed up.”

“I’m very jet lagged and _very_ sweaty.”

“Gross.”

“Exactly.”

Her voice taut with fake pleasantry, Gwen asks, “Oh, also, do you want to know who his father is?”

No, not really, but Gwen’s soldiering on, “The editor of _The Sauceror.”_

Phil bristles. _The Sauceror_ , Britain’s number one satirical magazine, prides itself on belittling magic users to the point where magic is a nationwide laughing stock. Magic isn’t illegal, but prejudice against it isn’t, either. Phil can’t exactly say he’s let down by this information: Howell was a dick, anyway. “That explains it all, then.”

Gwen’s voice is quieter, more lenient and kind, as she says, “I think the only person he was insulting was Tolkien.”

Phil snorts. “Really? You think so? _Really?”_

“Okay, so he was mean to you.”

“You got that right.”

“But the _magic_ hating is in your head, Phil. I think.”

Perhaps Gwen has a point. Looking back, Howell might have been a dick about Tolkien, but any mention of magic was for insult on Tolkien’s part, not magic’s. Phil hands it to her that the talk of magic was coincidental to the topic. But part of him, the stubborn, proud part of him, clings to his resentment. “Can you blame me?”

“No, I can’t.”

Phil thinks for a moment, and adds, “That last comment was rather hateful.”

“Again, it insulted you and your so called “poor” writing, not magic.”

“It still hurts, though, doesn’t it?” Phil doesn’t use magic to help his writing: it’s not black magic, after all. He reckons it’s very impossible to do so. But his writing is an important part of him, and, though Howell doesn’t know it, his magic is, too. He just had two major parts of him attacked by a stranger, and then his shame was painted up on the walls for everyone to see. He feels a bit like he’s melting.

“Yeah.”

To get the water warm, Phil sets the shower running; he could use magic to heat it up, but running water is difficult and he’s not opposed to being normal once in awhile. He tugs on a dressing gown and opens the door again, to be heard over the roar of water. One hand remains on the door, the other hangs by his side. “Can I present my case now, your honour?”

Softly, Gwen smiles, and presses her fingers to Phil’s wrist in an apology.

“I might have started it, but he provoked me. Yes, it was a trivial argument, but the coffee was shit.”

“Was it?”

Phil glares at her, and continues, “Anyway, provocation aside, Howell was more of a dick than I was. In the end, at least. He fought back twice as hard as I did. He said my work’s unreadable! Did I ask for that? No, I did not. I was a pile of dust on the ground, Gwen, I really was.” He says this last part with a lamenting, pitiful lilt - acting the part of the sorrowful accused.

“You picked the fight.”

“I wasn’t myself! Surely lack of caffeine and sleep are just grounds for a not guilty ruling?”

Regarding him for a moment, Gwen sighs. “It’s not about whether _I_ think you’re innocent. My job is to make sure your books sell, and that includes keeping up a decent public image.”

“Fine, fine, I’ll apologise,” Phil concedes, and Gwen nods in thanks. “But I think it’s only fair that he does, too, don’t you think?”

Gwen looks at him, considering. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thanks Gwen. I think I’m wasting water, so if you could go now, that’d be good.” The bathroom is full of swirling steam.

“Yeah, you are. I’ll come back in an hour for the party.”

“ _Party?_ Gwen, I’m exhausted.” Phil slumps against the door.

“And what happened to that apology?”

“Ugh. Okay, fine. Bye.” Straightening, Phil returns her smile and closes the door.

-

Though Phil may not have any connection to black magic, or anything advanced, really - rituals, hexes, Old Magic and the like aren’t his thing, and he doesn’t imagine they ever will be - he’s spent the past few years perfecting healing balms and potions. They’re the most tame form of tangible magic, he feels; the simple spells he conducts are subtle tweaks to the steady constant of reality, and he hates to go any further - for fear of discovery, for fear of hating himself. The use of magic is an ongoing discourse - a topic that resulted in many insults and ill-placed words. Phil can cope with balms and remedies. He can use them to help himself and others.

He’s also managing to make them smell wonderful.

He uses one of these balms - strawberry scented, barely - in the shower, to soothe his aching muscles and revive himself a little. His brain is threatening to fall out of his ears, his flesh is marinated in cider, he’s Sisyphus at the top of his mountain, so he prays that it will have an effect as he works some into the back of his thighs. When he steps out, stretching his muscles and feeling no protest from them, he mutters a _thank fuck_ ; unlike last time, the improvement is noticeable, and, like last time, the improvement is urgently needed.

-

In the time remaining before Gwen comes back, Phil sets to unpacking. With a wave of his hand, the clothes in his suitcase rise up and carry themselves over to the open wardrobe; Phil flicks his finger once, twice, and a smart shirt and ironed trousers leave the parade and land back on his bed. He changes into them, boils the kettle, and makes himself a cup of tea. Settling back on the bed - the mattress is comfortable, and bounces under his weight - he sits back with his drink to wait.

Would Howell even be at the party? Perhaps he has somewhere else to be, or perhaps his agent isn’t a ruthless person who cares about how many hours sleep he gets. If they are, then Phil won’t have to humiliate himself further. This is the preferable option.

But if he is there, will he even hear Phil out? He might catch one glimpse of Phil and slap him. Or sneer and jeer at him. The latter would be worse.

Phil doesn’t have a good history with words. On paper, he’s fine, but speaking to strangers sets a capricious worry into motion in his head. He tries to treat it like he would writing, rehearsing what to say in his head over and over, but he never knows how to _start_ , how to _initiate_. He’s been known to hover, caught in the issue of how to approach them. And Phil knows Howell, in a way, but they’re definitely not on good terms. He’s going to blurt out some heartless shit, or practically fall to his knees and tear his weakness and foolishness out for Howell to pick at.

This is going to go awfully.

-

Exactly an hour after her leaving, Gwen knocks on his door. Phil unlocks the door from where he’s sitting, his laptop balanced on his crossed legs, and Gwen doesn’t look surprised when she opens it to see Phil there, not behind it. She’s changed her clothes, too, into a yellow and blue top tucked into denim shorts (the top is designed to be loose, slumping over her shoulders and billowing under her arms but tightening where it’s tucked in). Her hair is down and her lipstick isn’t smudged.

“Are you clean now?”

“As I’ll ever be. Where do I take this?” Phil pushes his laptop off him and, picking it off the bedside table, brandishes his tea mug. He had really wanted a drink, but the consequences are making him regret it.

Gwen closes the door behind her. “Can’t you wash it?”

“I can’t make water and washing liquid out of thin air. I’m not _that_ magic.”

“Well, you’re gonna need to be. There are some very angry people on Twitter.”

Phil pulls a face. “Angry?”

“I’m not sure if angry is the exact word to use, but I’m going with it. Your fight with Dan has really done...something.”

“I thought we’d decided he deserved it! And where are my fans, huh? I have fans too.”

She steps farther into the room. “Oh, believe me, there’s hostility on both sides, don’t you worry. Are you offering to pick up the corpses? You guys started something of a war out there.”

“Not really. Is Howell gonna apologise, too?”

“Not if you keep addressing him by his surname, no. Come on, we need to get going.” She walks back towards the door.

“Gwen?”

“Yes?”

“My mug.”

“The cleaners will sort it out, just leave it.”

“Oh. Right.” Sheepishly, Phil places it back on its coaster, and stands up.

“Haven’t you been to hotels before?”

“Not _often_.” He catches up with her, locking the door behind him.

“That’s going to change soon,” she enthuses, nudging him in the ribs with her elbow. Phil throws her a smile and breaks it at the thought of all the people - strangers - he’s going to meet. It’s excitement or dread, the feeling, but either way, it drenches him, shocking him cold. His smile lies in pieces on the floor as he jabs the lift button.

“Why am I doing this, Gwen?”

“Doing what? Please don’t tell me you’re second guessing your whole career.” Gwen’s brow furrows and her fist tightens.

“Why am I about to sacrifice myself in public by apologising to that idiot?”

Gwen slaps his shoulder, “You dick! I was really worried!”

“Ow!” Rubbing his shoulder, Phil adds, “And who says this isn’t an important thing?”

Gwen shakes her head. “You’ll be fine. Can’t you make this lift come any faster?”

“I’m devastatingly handsome, Gwen, not some sort of time-manipulating cheat.”

-

The combined bar and party room of the hotel is burnished by neon bulbs. The room weeps red and pink light; it splits at certain angles in the lenses of Phil’s glasses. The ceiling stoops low, and the light fixtures are stuck to the walls, so areas of the ceiling are layered in shadow - the light ripples away and out. At the far side, a long table draped in a white cloth holds myriad plates of party food. The scent of alcohol and freshly baked cake drifts along in a room that is alive with voices. A pop song is playing, but not blasting; guests line the bar and stand in bouquets in the empty space. Phil knows none of them. Except -

“Nope. No, Gwen, I can’t.” He walks backwards a few steps, shaking his head.

“Yes, you can.” Gwen catches him by the elbow; the white of his button-up is stained a feeble red. “You have to. It’ll be okay: I’ve met him, he’s really harmless.”

Phil looks back to Howell. He’s sat alone at the bar, legs crossed and his hip against the ledge of wood; his eyes are fixed on his glass, but he shifts on his stool, as if he’s waiting for something. Like Phil, he’s wearing a button-up and jeans, but his shirt is black and graceful down the slope of his shoulders. He’s not sneering or beating anyone up, which is something; not unsurprising, really, but Phil had built up a much more menacing image of him in his head. Now, he at least looks harmless. “His father isn’t,” Phil worries.

“You’re not meeting his father, and I don’t imagine you ever will. It’ll be okay.”

Phil chews the inside of his cheek. “Can’t you come with me?”

“Now _that_ will make you look weird.”

“Touche.” Phil smooths down his shirt, breathes out deeply, and flips Gwen off for her histrionic eyeroll before setting off for the bar.

Dodging a number of people on his way, Phil forces himself not to float uselessly by Howell for any length of time, instead going straight in with, “I’m really sorry.” By skipping any proper introductions, or even a declaration of his presence, Phil makes himself even more anxious. He stands helplessly, curling and unfurling his fists as he watches Howell look up at him. His eyebrows raise, but he doesn’t look disgusted by Phil’s arrival.

“I think I should be the one apologising,” Howell admits, twisting around so as to see Phil better. Both his hands are still on the bar, so one arm is crossed over his lap; three fingers rub at the condensation of his glass.

Phil’s mouth cracks open in surprise, but this doesn’t stop him from saying, “Good, because I’m only doing this because my agent told me to.” He regrets saying this, but only until Howell’s lip pulls up in one corner, and he laughs - cordially - shocked out of him by Phil’s irreverence.

“Same, except I was sat here gathering my wits and putting it off.”

“Ah. I think we’ve been set up.”

Howell laughs again (and it’s not an ugly sneer at all). His foot kicks at a nearby stool, and Phil takes it as an invitation to sit down.

“The coffee was shit,” Phil declares, just as Howell explains, “I’m very jet lagged.” They smile upon realising, and Howell looks at him like he’s amused by something.

“That too,” Phil says. He ducks his head.

“To be honest, though, I haven’t got an excuse. You were defending a crap author. I just outright insulted you.”

Phil shakes his head firmly. “I sinned, too. I asked you who the hell you thought you were. And, I must admit, I didn’t recognise you at all.”

“Well, that’s just outrageous,” Dan jokes.

“I haven’t read any of your work,” Phil blurts, as if being forced into a confession by guilt, and he’s only half joking.

“And I have read none of yours.”

“It would appear,” Phil begins, slowly, and meets Dan’s gaze, “that we are as bad as each other.”

“Yes,” Dan agrees. “Perhaps we should buy each other a drink, and be done with it.”

“Surely that’s perfectly redundant.”

“If we order the same drink, yes,” Dan says, as he raises his hand to get the bartender’s attention.

“Then I’m getting whatever you get.”

“Ugh, don’t be like that. I crossed more lines than you did, I deserve to pay more.”

“Then think of me refusing that offer as me being a dick, and we’re equal.”

From the corner of his eye, Dan looks at him, and tries to look annoyed. “The cheap beer, please,” he says, when the bartender asks what she can get them. She turns to Phil expectantly.

“What he’s getting,” he tells her, and as she walks away he returns Dan’s glare and fixed jaw with an outrageously wide, innocent smile.

“What a dick,” Dan whispers - whispers after leaning closer so Phil can hear it over the music. Also grinning.

“Now we match,” Phil states. “So, tell me, what did Tolkien ever do to you?”

-

They’re halfway through an argument about which movement that emerged out of the twentieth century was the best, when Gwen comes over with another woman. Her blonde hair is cut to her jaw, and despite the neon lighting Phil can make out faded hints of pastel colour running through it. She and Gwen are laughing as they walk.

“You guys are getting on, then?” Gwen says, and Dan stops butchering Hemingway to smile up at her. (Howell becomes Dan when Phil lets ‘Howell’ slip mid-sentence and is received with a, “Please, we can either be friends, or you can keep calling me Howell.” Phil’s stubborn, but - and he hates to admit it - he’s taken to Dan, despite his cutting humour and awful literary tastes. The next time, he says ‘Dan’, and watches Dan’s knowing smile ripple across his cheeks.)

“Fitfully,” Phil replies.

“I understand,” says the blonde woman. “I know more than anyone how much of a pain in the arse he is.”

“I am right here,” Dan says, pointing to himself.

“I’m Dan’s agent, Louise,” she says, offering her hand. Phil shakes it.

“Phil. But you might know that already.” He gives Gwen a pointed look, and she shrugs.

“I feel like I should apologise on Dan’s behalf. So, I’m sorry for his behaviour, his big head overwhelms him.”

Phil laughs. “I’m sorry, too.”

“What for?”

“Having to put up with him.”

The three of them laugh - while Dan crosses his arms and scowls.

“It’s a sign of affection, I promise,” Phil tells him.

He replies, “Fuck you,” but his face lifts a little.

-

Gwen and Louise pull up stools. The four of them sit in a circle and chat for a while, and Phil barely touches his drink. Louise is bubbly and reckless in her humour, but never to the point of insult. Her cheeks are painted pink, but it’s natural flush. Dan is cordial and charismatic, but keeps a little bit of dry humour and gloom for himself. Gwen is her usual self: following the tone of the conversation faultlessly, forever willing to put Phil down with her quick wit, offering support when she sees fit.

They talk about plans for tours and life in general. Dan’s on a tour, too, but with more stops and longer flights; he also happened to call the flight attendant “Mum” on the flight over. Louise doesn’t hesitate to expose all his slip ups, and Dan doesn’t hesitate to hurl swear words back for her effort. They make Phil’s ribs hurt.

“Dan wanted to go and see the Perseids,” Louise says. Dan buries his face in his hands and groans like an embarrassed teenager; to be fair, though, he’s probably only a few years older than that. (“Or six,” Dan will tell him later.)

“We’re not too close to the city centre, it wouldn’t be too much work to get out of the range of the streetlamps, would it?” Gwen asks.

“About an hour, at most,” Dan says, deciding to speak for himself. He sits up. “But I don’t have a car, nor the money to rent one.”

“I told you he couldn’t be too successful if he’s here,” Phil says to Gwen, with little hostility. She shoots him a look of disdain.

“Shut up,” Dan says.

“Oh, Phil, you wanted to go and see them, didn’t you?” Gwen says. God knows why.

“Did I?” (He did. He knows this.)

“You could car pool, or whatever,” Louise picks up where Gwen left off. “You could afford it then, surely?”

“That would be perfect!” Gwen claps her hands together, and responds to Phil’s look of _what the hell are you doing_ with one that says this is revenge for his previous slight.

“Would that work for you?” Louise asks Dan. He looks to Phil, who concedes with a small nod.

“Sure.”

They’re both skeptical and awkward about it - they may get on, but they’ve known each other approximately an hour - but there’s no denying the convenience of it.

“But,” Phil interjects, “who’s going to drive? We’ve both drunk alcohol.”

“Phil, honey, you’ve barely touched your drink,” Gwen points out.

“Oh, yeah.” Phil drops his head in defeat, and lets Gwen hurry him away, saying over her shoulder, “We’ll see you both outside in ten, then?”

-

“What the _hell_ are you doing?” Phil hisses as soon as they are out of earshot.

“Jumping on an opportunity,” Gwen replies simply. Her hand still cups his elbow as she guides him to the lifts. “Don’t hiss at me, I’m not the only one who’s made annoying choices today.”

“You’re sending me out into the countryside with a _stranger_.”

“You’ve chatted for over an hour, you’re not strangers any more.”

“We’re practically mortal enemies.”

Gwen shakes her head. “You sorted out your differences.”

“From the world’s point of view, we are still mortal enemies.”

“Exactly. As your agent, I’m telling you that you need to change that.”

“How are they gonna know what I get up to this evening? It changes nothing!”

“You can tweet, can’t you?” Gwen looks sideways at him. He nods, slowly. “There’s your solution.”

“But -”

“Phil, you wanted to see the Perseids. I honestly don’t have any ulterior motives for this. Except the obvious PR benefits,” she admits under Phil’s accusative glare. “I just want you to have fun!”

Phil sighs. “I can’t fault you, then.”

“I won’t let you.”

Phil steps inside the lift after her.

-

It takes an hour and a half to get far enough away from the streetlamps. A few stars appear if Phil looks long enough, leaking out drops of sharp blue; clumps of cloud stop up the wounds, and most of the sky is bloated with the same dusty grey. On the horizon, the outline of the National Park is a slumping corpse.

“I don’t think this is going to work,” Phil states, eyeing the clouds.

“Why not?” Dan doesn’t look up from his phone. Without the city lights, the car is dark, and Phil can only see the features the light of Dan’s phone hits; his nose is prominent under the influence of heavy shadow, the high edges of his face cast in neon blue.

“It’s really cloudy.”

“Ah.” Dan raises his head, pressing the screen of his phone to his lap so he can see the unabridged night, and squints upwards through the window. “Is it going to rain?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so.” Returning to the road, Phil clutches the steering wheel as he waits for the light of his headlights to alight on the upcoming corner.

“We should have checked the forecast before we came.”

Phil squares his jaw. As the tight turn becomes known to him, he spins the wheel three hundred and sixty degrees. “Yeah, we should have.”

Dan opens the weather app on his phone, then curses. “There’s no signal.”

“Well, that’s obvious, Dan,” Phil says, and doesn’t wave his hand behind him at the retreating cityscape. The road continues to snake through rusting soil banks and low shrubs.

“Not really our fault though, is it?”

“Our agents aren’t the best event planners,” Phil agrees, looking at Dan in the front mirror. Dan grins.

“No. But we have been set up by them twice in a very short amount of time, so they must be persuasive.”

“Or, we’re pushovers.”

“I’m not a pushover.”

“I am,” Phil says, and smiles sheepishly.

Dan laughs. “Did you know #TolkienGate was trending third in the world?”

Phil widens his eyes. “ _What_?”

“I’ll take that as a no, then. Clearly Gwen spared you the guilt of a ruined career.”

“Hardly.” Phil considers for a second. “We’re not _ruined_ , are we?”

“It depends. Is your writing better than your arguments?”

Phil pulls a face. He looks at Dan again in the front mirror; behind it, a massive cloud swarms forward across a patch of open sky. “I’m afraid you’ll have to be the judge of that.”

“Aw, a pushover and a self-doubter! You’re adorable.” Dan leans forward, looking past Phil to the side of the road. “Pull over here.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m bored and there’s no point going on any further. This is the best we’re going to get.”

“Okay.” Phil puts his foot down on the brake.

Looking at him, Dan says, “You really are a pushover.”

“Self-proclaimed.” Phil catches the door handle and pushes it open, twists and kicks his feet out. “Coming?”

“Obviously.”

-

They both lie on the car bonnet, faces tilted to the sky. Mercifully, the radiant of the meteor shower is, for the moment, free of cloud. For twenty minutes they sit in attentive silence, scouring the sky for meteors.

“There’s one!” Phil cries, as a line of fishing wire appears in the wake of a furious, fluorescing ball of silver. The wire trails behind it before it is wound up and stashed away, and it disappears.

“Where?” Dan pushes himself up and follows Phil’s finger.

“Too late,” Phil grumbles.

“Ugh.” Dan falls back against the window; there is an angry thump. “Ow, fuck.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, fine.”

“Well, if you’re seeing stars, either you’ve got concussion, or you’re seeing the Perseids.”

Dan stares at him. “You’re so weird.” He shakes his head, squeezes his eyes shut before opening them and casting his gaze to the sky. “I’m seeing nothing.”

“Then you’re really blind.”

Dan swats his leg. “Says you, Captain Specsavers.”

Phil huffs and flips him off. Dan laughs. His eyes focus on a spot behind Phil’s head.

“Holy shit, look, there!”

Phil looks. “I can’t see anything.”

“You missed it.”

And so it goes for another half an hour.

-

As midnight crawls closer, coldness prickles the air like electricity, and rises to spikes in Phil’s chest. Dan’s focus is saved for the sky, not him, so he casts a warming spell, thinking he deserves some comfort while stuck out here. It’s all Gwen’s fault.

“I think I see - oh, no. It’s a plane,” Phil realises, rather stupidly, and presses his mouth into a fine line against his laugh.

“Oh my God. Do you know what a meteor looks like, Phil? Do you?” Dan shakes Phil’s shoulders, and pulls his hands back, marvelling. “How are you so warm?”

“Um,” Phil answers. “Human radiator.”

“Lucky, I’m freezing.”

Phil takes pity on him - he has something of a weak spot for underdogs - and pushes the warmth out to greet Dan when he’s not looking.

-

Though it’s not successful in terms of meteor spotting, the time spent together is long enough to solve any literary disputes they may have. Dan is a harsh critic, and prefers the raw meaning of writers like Hemingway and Orwell to the great, intricate images the Romantic and Gothic eras have to offer.

“So you’re published?” Dan asks. His hair is curling around his forehead, but the night is dry, so Phil concludes Dan’s hair straighteners must be shit. “Well, obviously,” he chastises himself, “but I know nothing about your work.”

Phil smiles at Dan’s rambling. “I’m published online.”

“That doesn’t count.”

“Yes it does. I post it and it says ‘PUBLISHED’ at the top.”

Dan snorts.

“It counts!” Phil insists.

“I have four books published,” Dan says, offering the information rather than boasting.

“I have a few ebooks.”

“Of course you do. These Millennial types, all electronic.”

“I’m older than you.”

“You’re more digital than me, too.”

“I was commissioned to write a novel and I’m unsure how well it will go down or if I’ll ever get it done,” Phil admits, staring up at the sky. Most of the Northern sky is covered: they’ll have to return home soon.

“You’ll get it done,” Dan says, softer. He frowns, then, looking around him. “Has it got warmer?”

“I think so,” Phil lies.

-

By the time they decide to head back, the whole sky is clouded, and the grey has swollen into a cavernous black. However, they’re in the middle of a Shakespeare discussion by the time they enter the hold of the city again, so decide to stop off at a McDonalds - they stay there until midnight.

“No, but when Lady Macbeth says, what, that she needs to be ‘unsexed’,” Dan argues as they wait for their orders, “she’s showing not only that she needs Macbeth to do her dirty work for her, but that her nature is not made to do such a crime. She’s pressured into such extreme measures of obtaining power by a bigoted society -”

“Yes! That’s what I’m saying!” Phil exclaims, gesticulating wildly.

“I - wait. You mean, you and I think the same thing?”

“Yes!” Phil nods eagerly.

“Oh, fuck.” Dan massages his temples. “I think I need something a bit stronger than a chocolate milkshake.”

“You do _not_.” Phil grabs Dan’s hand and pulls it away from his temples.

“I never thought I’d fucking agree with you! I must be going mad.”

“You must be,” Phil nods, keeping a firm hold of his wrist. “Your brand is falling apart.” He cannot help but smile.

-

“Goodnight,” Phil says when they stop outside Dan’s hotel room.

“It’s also goodbye.”

Phil frowns. “Why?”

“I’m leaving tomorrow morning. I have a signing at Barnes & Noble, then I’m off to San Diego.”

“Lucky bastard.”

“Hardly, I have to get up at 6.”

“You poor bastard,” Phil amends, and sticks out his hand. “Bye.”

Dan shakes Phil’s hand. “Bye.”

-

“How are you this morning?” Gwen asks, slipping into the chair opposite his. She’s brought a chocolate bar and her phone with her, both clutched in one hand.

Phil looks up; he’s slumped over his hotel coffee, one hand holding his head up, the other scrolling through his Twitter feed. The hotel cafe is empty enough that he’s daring to use magic to control the teaspoon, and he watches it twirl in the liquid; the table is against a wall, and he’s slumped in front of it in case anyone does happen to look. “Still feeling shit.”

“I can tell; you get reckless when you’re tired,” Gwen comments, and stares forcefully at him until he sighs. The teaspoon drops to the side of mug.

“The coffee’s still shit,” he grumbles.

Gwen ignores him. “Are all your differences solved?”

“Still got differences, but we’ve put them aside,” Phil says into his hand.

“Good. Does Twitter know that?”

Phil groans. “What are you on about?”

“People got quite angry with the both of you, as you probably know.”

“I was _trending_.”

“Yes, exactly. So you need to tell people you’re both friends now, or face the consequences. It won’t be pleasant.”

“Twitter is never pleasant.”

“This is a whole other level, Phil. You insulted people’s idol. You both did,” she adds, before Phil objects.

“I’m too tired to tweet anything meaningful. I’m sorry I can’t be a part of your social agenda.”

Gwen kicks him under the table, and slides the chocolate bar across to him.

“I take it back, I love you.”

“Love you too. Now, please hurry up, or we’ll be late.”

-

 **Phil Lester** _@AmazingPhil_

still exhausted after watching the perseids with @danisnotonfire last night. we saw 5.3 meteors and a flying goat.

-

Later, Phil will wish he were late to that panel: ten minutes in, a vigilante in the second row chucks a hardback book at his face.

Phil hates using magic in public, never uses it automatically, and he’s not about to start. Plus, he’s still jetlagged and very tired. So when, instead of deflecting the book before it even reaches him, Phil avoids exposing his secret and flings an arm out to prevent any brain damage, it is perfectly justified. There’s no time for panic, just a shocked yelp, as the book smashes into his forearm. The force sends him flying backwards. As gasps of horror and outrage boil up from the audience, Phil falls to the floor, grimacing. The offending book is on the floor beside him, pages splayed open. The front cover reads _A Guide To Black Magicke_ in a gilded gold, curling font. _Well, that’s just horribly ironic and macabre, isn’t it?_ Phil thinks. A pain sprouts in his lower arm; it smarts and explodes in the front of his head, making him hiss air out of his gritted teeth. It feels very much broken. He tries to rotate his wrist.

“It’s broken,” Phil tells Gwen when she appears above him, looking concerned and vengeful, and he cradles his arm to his chest.

“Is that a fake book on dark magic?”

“It is indeed.” Phil nods. He’s managed to sit up, and rocks back and forth in an attempt to quell the pain.

“Oh, Phil,” she pities, stifling her smile with a hand to her mouth.

Phil sighs. “You can laugh, I won’t be offended.”

Removing her hand, she gives a disbelieving laugh, but only for a matter of seconds. “I think I’m too shocked to properly laugh, don’t worry. But - _oh my God_.”

“It is quite funny, yes,” Phil agrees, poking the book with his toe.

“I think they planned it to be.” Gwen picks it up by pinching the top of its spine. “I think I might frame this.”

“Good luck, it feels at least 500 pages long.”

Gwen’s face descends into guilt again. “Does it hurt a lot?”

“Quite. Don’t blame yourself. Dan said I needed black magic to make my writing better; I’m sure they were just trying to help out by giving this to me as a gift.”

She smiles gently. “They’re calling 911. You sure you’re okay?”

“As long as Royal Mail don’t use this method of posting in the future, I’ll be totally fine.” He shuffles forwards, and, shutting his eyes against the glaring sting of pain, leans against her legs.

-

It only takes an hour for the Internet to milk the accident for all it’s worth. Dan must have heard about it, because Phil gets a text while in the hospital waiting room that reads, “ _oh no._ ”

Phil sits in his hotel room, his arm in a cast and sling, staring at his laptop screen; he alternates between feeling glum and sorry for himself, and laughing aloud.

“You are most certainly trending now,” Gwen announces, sitting down on the bed next to him and crossing her legs. She holds out her phone for Phil to see. He sees the phrases _#TolkienGate,_ # _R_ _IPPhilLester_ and _#HowellIsGoingToJail_ before he looks away.

“I’m not dead,” he says, “But I may as well be. Take my laptop and my phone, it’s not like I can use them anymore.”

“You’ll learn,” Gwen comforts, patting his knee.

“Can we postpone the tour?” he asks, half hopeful.

“No fucking way, I am going to Canada if it’s the last thing you do.”

“Glad to see you’re as selfless as ever.”

She shoots him a guilty look and returns to her phone. She gasps.

“What? What is it?”

“Pre Orders for _Jelly Hearts_ are through the roof! Your ebooks are selling again, too, you’re in Amazon’s top ten!”

“But there’s not even a release date yet!”

“I know! You’re a martyr.”

“Take that, J.K Rowling.” Phil’s phone rings, and he answers it after squinting at the contact number.

“Phil Lester, valid author and saint speaking.”

Dan laughs, the sound crackling down the phone line. “I called as soon as I could. You’re not gonna drop this, ever, are you?”

“Of course not! This was the turning point in my career. I’m a martyr now.”

Dan is silent for a moment. “I’m really sorry. It’s always me apologising, isn’t it?”

“Two out of two times, yes.”

“I must be a bad person.”

“Dan, it’s not your fault.” Phil rolls his eyes. “How were you to know some teenager would become a vigilante for you?”

“But if I hadn’t said it in the first place,” Dan argues.

“Nonsense. I refuse to blame you, and I hope you do the same.”

Dan sighs. “Fine.”

“Good.” Phil shifts on the bed, making himself more comfortable, and leans back against the headboard. “Now, do you want the good news, or the bad news?”

“Both.”

“The good news is that my fans can write some beautiful eulogies for me in the instance of my actual death.”

Again, Dan laughs. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you.”

“What’s the bad news?”

“According to the Twitter trends, you’re going to jail. I’d hate to argue with the majority, so I’m sorry to say that you’re a criminal now.”

It takes a few seconds before Dan can talk again; his laugh is loud and billowing. “You’re liaising with one of the world’s Most Wanted.”

“Actually, _you_ called _me_.”

“To apologise!”

“It’s not enough for the LA PD.”

“Sorry PD. When do you leave?”

“Tomorrow, at noon.”

“Where to?”

“San Francisco.”

“Exciting.”

“Hopefully,” Phil says.

“I have to go. Maybe our paths will cross,” Dan ponders. “If not, you have my number and my email.”

“No one uses email.”

“They do when international texts cost an arm and a leg, and there’s no time to call.”

"I do only have one arm to spare now."

"Exactly."

Phil bites his lip, smiling. “You flatter yourself, thinking I’ll be in contact.”

“We’ll see, Lester, we’ll see. Sorry again.”

“Stop blaming yourself,” Phil tells him, and hangs up.

“Was that Dan?” Gwen asks.

Phil nods. “Apologising for indirectly breaking my arm. I said to you that we’d put our differences aside.”

“And I believed you. Just didn’t know you two were in contact?”

“We’re not, really.”

“Well, I hope you’re still up for talking. You’ve got five requests for interviews already.”

Phil’s arm throbs constantly and the cast itches relentlessly, but he finds he can’t care as much anymore.

-

 **Phil Lester** _@AmazingPhil_

now i'm dead i have much better dealings with the devil! black magic really helps my writing. expect countless bestsellers from now on. #RIPPhilLester

-

 **Dan Howell** _@danisnotonfire_

how to make me hate you #666: throw a fucking 500 page hardback book at my friend's head. leave the dramatics to me, please.

 

-

After San Francisco, they head up north into Canada, and Phil stares out of the hotel window at Vancouver’s mountains as he picks up his phone.

_phil: why is martyrdom so boring and tiring_

He doesn’t expect a reply any time soon, so returns to the word document he has open. A coffee sits on the table beside him, steaming. He hasn’t got used to only having one working hand, yet, so he’d got the drink before thinking it through.

His phone vibrates in his pocket, catching him by surprise.

_dan: what does the afterlife look like?_

_phil: lots of mountains. the imminent threat of moose._

_dan: moose? is that the plural of moose?_

_phil: idk_

Phil gives up writing for the moment; he takes a sip of his coffee, then calls behind him, “Gwen! What’s the plural of moose?”

Gwen emerges from her bedroom - their rooms are adjoined - and stands at the divide. “It’s just moose, isn’t it? Like sheep?”

Phil nods, and fumbles with orientating his phone in his hand.

_phil: gwen thinks it’s moose._

_dan: hi gwen_

“Dan says hi,” Phil tells her as she walks back to her room. She stops.

“You’re talking to Dan again?”

“It’s hardly cause for an ‘again’,” Phil tuts. “Yes, we’re texting. Our telepathic channels are down.”

Her eyes go to the top of her head. “Self-sacrifice has made you more sarcastic.” She considers, next saying, “Or maybe it’s pining.”

“ _Pining?”_ If Phil were still drinking his coffee, he’d spit it out, if only to make a point. “It’s been a week. And I hardly like him.”

“Okay,” Gwen says, in a way that says, _sure, whatever you say_.

_phil: gwen says hi_

“I’m having to be civil on your part,” he comments, and he looks up at her.

“Sorry. Hi Dan.” She perches on the end of Phil’s bed. (It’s too big, too soft, and too anonymous. He’ll get sick of hotel life by the end of this.) “Now you’re not lying.”

“It was a lie at the time.”

His phone buzzes again.

_dan: @gwen; is phil annoying you with all his moose talk? i can sort him out, if you know what i mean. i know people._

Phil scoffs, but grudgingly shows Gwen the text. She smiles, and prises the phone from him to reply.

_phil: gwen here. i’m coping fine, thank you. moose talk is tiring and bearable. the hotel have lots of spare pillows, anyway, if the worst comes to worst._

Phil reads the text, saying, “I am such a victim!”

-

After Vancouver, they dip back into America. Seattle is thriving and decadent, framed with fantastical mountains and the rippling blues of the ocean. Phil buys two magnets for his fridge, and sees approximately three stores advertising Dan’s new book in their front windows. He snaps a picture of each one, sends them to Dan, and finishes the medley off with, “ _i’m not giving in. yet._ ” In reply, Dan merely sends him the middle finger emoji. Phil nearly laughs in the taxi.

-

Phil knows Dan also has a stop in Denver, but he’s still surprised to see him there.

It’s 10PM in Denver airport; it’s busy, an electric mess of rolling suitcases and screaming children, and Phil’s only just arrived but he already wants to leave. Dan’s sat on one of the plastic benches, and stands when he sees Phil.

“Phil!” he calls to get his attention. Phil looks around blearily for a few seconds, trying to identify the location of the noise; by the time he focuses on Dan, he’s only a few metres in front of him.

Dan wraps Phil in a careful but relieved embrace. Phil lets go of his case to put an arm around him - his broken arm hangs by his side. “How are you?”

It’s so peculiar to hear his voice again. Since the phone call post-TolkienGate, their communications have been textual. “I’m okay. Tired.”

“Same.” Dan pulls back, and, pointing at Phil’s cast, says, “Sorry.”

Phil has enough energy to pointedly roll his eyes. “It’s not your fault I apparently died three weeks ago.”

Dan regards him, taking one of his bags for him. “You look dead.”

“Thanks.” Phil thumps him with his broken arm.

“Ow!”

“This makes a mighty weapon,” Phil supposes, twisting his arm to show his cast: it’s covered in plenty of signatures and silly doodles, but Phil saved space for certain people.

“Do you want this bag back?”

“No, no, you can carry it, if you insist.”

“Hi, Gwen.” Dan turns to her.

“Hi, Dan.” She smiles knowingly at the two of them.

“We should get going,” Phil says, shifting under Gwen’s gaze. He sets off, tugging his suitcase along behind him, and Dan walks in time with him. “Your turn,” Phil tells him. “You look a bit like Hell.”

“This is Hell.”

“Says who?”

“All the Mulders out there.” Dan tries to make a triangle with his hands, despite one being weighed down by Phil’s bag.

“Take your tin foil hat off and keep walking,” Phil says.

-

They’re doing talks at different venues, and are thus staying at different hotels. They only meet up at all because Dan waited for an hour and a half after his arrival to see them.

“How’s your arm?” Dan asks, bringing over three coffees to their table in the airport Starbucks.

“Still broken. I’m running out of painkillers.” Phil kicks out a chair for Dan with his foot; Dan nods in thanks, setting the drinks down on the table. The surface is covered in rings.

“We’re going to get you more, calm down,” Gwen says.

“And your book?”

“Thirty thousand words,” Phil recounts.

“That’s good!”

“It’s overwhelming,” Phil corrects. He’s mastered picking up things with one hand by now, and braces himself for the scalding punch of his coffee as he takes it to his lips.

“It’ll be great,” Dan says, matter-of-fact. He says it so firmly that Phil goes weak - at the assurance, maybe, or perhaps he’s swooning. It’s not unknown to him. Embarrassing.

“Don’t bother,” Gwen tells him. “I’ve tried making him realise how good he is, to no avail. Part of me thinks he’s fishing.”

“You make me sound ungrateful.”

She bites her lip. “Sorry. I know you’re not ungrateful, just a humble pain in my arse.”

Phil sets his drink back down on the table, and makes eye contact with Dan as he looks to her. “I’ll take it.”

-

Before long, it’s goodbye again. There’s no time for a rendez-vous at a later time: both of them leave tomorrow evening.

“Where are you heading next?” Phil asks this into the junction of Dan’s shoulder.

“It’s a surprise. I’ll email you.”

“Email.” Phil raises his eyebrows. “That means I should expect something long, then?”

“A transatlantic memoir,” Dan says. “I’m trying to be enigmatic, let me.”

“I wasn’t objecting.”

“I can feel you judging me.”

“I am doing no such thing.”

“No, you’re too nice for that,” Dan concedes. He squeezes Phil’s waist and disappears before Phil has a chance to retrieve himself.

“It would appear,” Gwen says, appearing in Dan’s place, “that Phil Lester’s surrealist heart has been softened.”

Phil finds Dan again in the crowd; he’s standing in the line for security checks, and upon seeing Phil he waves. “Don’t be ridiculous,” Phil scolds her, smiling and waving back.

-

_From: yourstruly@danhowell.co.uk_

_To: phil@nineleggedoctupi.co.uk_

_Subject: amsterdam_

Phil,

Let’s pretend this isn’t my first email to you, and let’s pretend it hasn’t been days, and get down to business.

I’m in Amsterdam, have been for three days. It took 11 hours to get here, and another two hours to find our hotel. I actually got here four days ago, but Louise and I passed out in our rooms and didn’t resurrect until noon the next day. It was a relief to have a proper bathroom again. I hadn’t showered in over 48 hours, nor brushed my teeth. I’m sorry to tell you that, but integrity is a thing, and I’d hate to be one to keep up some level or pretense. Though, you’re a surrealist writer, maybe you like that kind of thing.

They filmed TFIOS here, didn’t they? I think I saw Hazel and Augustus’ bench yesterday, but I didn’t want to sit on it. They don’t deserve my butt warmth.

I’ve seen work by Van Gogh and Rembrandt and others. I feel bad that I don’t remember their names. That was the one thing I could do for them.

The Anne Frank Museum was...something. Call me pretentious, but the feeling of fleeting life, and the knowledge that her bravery, strength and, honestly, fame, only came about in such shit circumstances - I wish I could capture those perfectly in my stories, but at the same time, I don’t want to touch those thoughts with a ten foot pole. People will have to cope with the existential ramblings of _Roses Gone By June_ (available in all good bookstores.) (I also saw my books available in Amsterdam’s stores. Translated into Dutch. Fucking crazy.)

The canals are gorgeous, and the houses one goes past while journeying down them are the cute opulence I’d hope from Northern Europe (as North as I’m going, anyway.) The Gold Age was something else. The houses are so narrow, Phil, but still idyllic. I didn’t think gables could ever look more attractive. I half want to live here, but I said that about all the cities I’ve seen (Vancouver, Toronto, Seattle, NYC…). No matter, for London is my true home and destination.

There are so many fucking cyclists. It makes me exhausted looking at them. While going down the canal, I saw a man with his cat in his basket. It was adorable but also terrifying. The last thing I want to witness on my world tour is kitten murder.

Onto Hamburg next. Hope this was the Transatlantic Memoir you were expecting. (Yes, I know you didn’t ask for one. No, I don’t fucking care.)

Send my love to Gwen.

\- DH

_From: phil@nineleggedoctupi.co.uk_

_To: yourstruly@danhowell.co.uk_

_Subject: RE: amsterdam_

dan,

please don’t destroy amsterdam, or its kittens! i’m going there in a few weeks! D: (apologies for the emoticon, but i refuse to use emojis in an email. it’s not professional and i have standards to uphold.) (using no capital letters doesn’t count.)

as i write this, i am sat on a plane on the way to toronto! so of course i won’t send it now, but if we’re going to be a pair of people who pretend a lot, i may as well as ask you to pretend that this is being sent from a very high elevation. (i guess that’s what writers do best, though. pretending is our life.)

it’s the very tail end of dusk, now, and i can’t see the clouds anymore. i don’t know why, but it’s very unsettling. america looks beautiful at night, as you can imagine, so i guess it’s a silver lining...gwen & i are trying to guess the states as we go over. we have no way of telling who’s right, or when we enter a new state, so the game has it’s issues. we’re working through them.

sorry if my emails aren’t as structured as yours, but free writing and association are things i do for a living, so cut me some slack. you stick to your existential worries and i’ll stick to farming giraffes and playing harmonicas for lullabies.

(i know i already said, but cities are awfully pretty. each new light fills the space between my heart beats. i’ve never seen a firefly in real life. miami disappointed me there.)

i was in miami. i saw lots of crocodiles. i met a woman who knew someone who knew someone who had six fingers. i also went to a cafe where all the drinks were served in matte black cups, and the main light sources were fairy lights. i thought of you, but the lighting was too poor to send you a decent picture. oh, the sacrifices we make for aesthetic! also, you were right, international texts and calls are blooming expensive. i’ve already lost 3 out of my 5 legs.

i’m only in toronto for two days, then chicago for two, boston for one, and then it’s an overnight flight to AUSTRALIA. the last time i went there was when i was 9. i won’t sleep on the plane, though, just like how i won’t sleep now. perhaps those 23 and a bit hours are the perfect time to write true surrealist lit.

would you like me to document my own memoirs for you, or is that your thing? i’d hate to leech off the ideas of a true expert.

gwen says she sends her love, too, and is reconsidering your offer. you know, the one where you said you knew people, and could sort me out. that one. i’m trying not to type it, but she’s put some kind of curse on me, and i can’t control my fingers anymore. (speaking of curses, my cast has to be on for another six weeks or so. turns out it fractured in two places, and part of the tissue is damaged.)

phil.

_From: yourstruly@danhowell.co.uk_

_To: phil@nineleggedoctupi.co.uk_

_Subject: RE: RE: amsterdam_

yes please.

\- DH

-

Perth, Australia. The bending back of river, the shelves of sand in the suburbs. When it’s dark, the skyscrapers cast iridescent beacons of light; reflections spreading their wings into stripes on the water; a transient phenomenon that looks like it could last forever, like you could touch it. It’s early September now, so the temperature is mild, but it’s humid, and Phil gives up straightening his hair or kidding himself that he can wear jeans comfortably. Toronto was stunning, Boston was stylish, Chicago was excessive, and by now Phil is wiped out.

His readings are similar in format, and in people, to a certain point - many are students, with dark-framed glasses or mustard yellow sweaters, who bear poignancy on their chests like they are the only ones - but his audiences come up with enough different questions and are so welcoming that Phil is not bored yet.

The hotel food is the same. The pillows never have enough substance, and he wakes up with kinks in his neck. Gwen has stopped wearing lipstick every day. He talks to plenty of people each day, but comes back to his room feeling isolated and hollow, despite the thrumming excitement ruling his viscera. Every city he visits infatuates him and he wants to write love poems about them, but at the same time he longs for his home.

(He has twenty stops overall. Dan has twenty eight. He can hardly imagine how homesick Dan is - if he is at all.)

Perth, Australia. Phil wakes up with his duvet slipping off the bed - a double, with four pillows. His arm doesn’t throb immediately, which is a small achievement. Clumsily, he searches for the newly-filled pot of pills, and drops two in his mouth; water splashes onto his pillow as he picks up his glass and drinks.

After ten or so minutes of scrolling through his social media and trying to convince himself to get up, his phone buzzes in his hand. Phil’s excitement flares upon seeing the caller ID **Dan Howell** on the screen.

“D-slice!” he says, his voice rough - it’s the first time he’s spoken today, and he had three readings yesterday.

“Phil?” Dan’s voice is lazy, doused in soporific. Perhaps it’s his phone’s speakers, but he sounds much quieter than normal.

“That’s me.”

“Oh, good. I was worried someone had kidnapped you, but it turns out you’ve just stooped low enough to call me ‘D-slice’.”

Phil rolls over and presses his cheek into the pillow. “I’m cooler now. I’ve changed. You’ll have to accept it.”

Dan yawns. “I’ll stick around, but don’t be flattered. I just can’t be bothered to hang up.”

Laughing quietly, Phil says, “You’re yawning.”

“Well observed.”

“Where are you?” he asks, as if he didn’t look up Dan’s tour schedule. (He did, but that was over twelve hours ago.)

“Venice.”

Phil gasps. “On a scale of one to ten, how pretty is it there?”

Dan hums, strained as he stretches. Phil’s chest aches. “Nine and a half. I’m too busy to properly enjoy it.”

“Have you had a tour?”

“Oh, yeah, but I’m too preoccupied by work to be a real tourist.”

Phil tuts. “You mustn’t be too hard on yourself.”

“I’m on a world tour for my book. It’s what I’m here for.”

The sun is crawling up the sky and, from its new position, slots coins of golden morning through the gaps in the curtains; the light rolls around the carpet, in shapes like pillars and paint strokes, splitting Phil’s tired face in half. His eyelids are drooping again, but their taxi arrives in forty minutes to take them to the first venue - a lecture theatre in the university.

Phil gives up and moves on. “What time is it?”

“Two fifty AM.”

Clicking his tongue, he says, “So you can’t sleep.”

“Probably.”

“Is that why you called?”

“Probably.” Phil stays quiet, coaxing more words out of Dan. “I have a lot on my mind.”

“No jet lag?”

“Well, that too,” Dan concedes. “But I’m exhausted.”

“So you think I’m the one to listen to you empty your mind?”

“You’ve got more room for it.”

“Are you implying my head’s empty?”

“Ehh.”

“That my brain’s small?”

“Perhaps.”

Phil scoffs. “I’m contacting Vanity Fair. I’m going to expose you for the arsehole you are.” All of the interviews he had after the book scandal have been published, now, and _Jelly Hearts_ has only dropped down two places on Amazon’s lists. “I need the publicity.”

“And I’ll happily give it to you.”

Phil smiles to himself. “So, Howell, tell me your darkest secrets.”

-

_http://nineleggedoctupi.co.uk_

ROSES AND A DOZEN BLACKBIRDS

friend, and

the roses bloomed well last summer.

in december i picked them

and left them at your door

and it rained thrice since last week.

when you said you were too full,

i left your heart out for the birds,

and they pecked and pecked and pecked,

and you, object object objecting,

finally felt at peace.

sorry i couldn’t ask your permission,

but a barbed voice pulls my brain apart

until it i cannot bear.

now our minds are bare.

the roses, you prompt, yes, roses,

friend, the birds turned your heart to shreds

and my gory pulp of wet rose replaced it.

we beat together. stop beating

yourself up.

when (or, if,) you dig your own grave,

i will scatter it with rose petals

and your lips will still

look gorgeous in the light.

you grow around my chest.

i know you would do the same

for me

the rose-planter, the heart-leaver,

the emptier.

-

 **Dan Howell** _@danisnotonfire_

now i have space in my heart to enjoy this tour. thank you to everyone who has come to see me, or is, or will.

-

Somewhere over the Indian Ocean, Phil loses all his despondency and loneliness, and falls in love with the touring wholeheartedly.

Rome is dusty and the ruins are falling apart. Gwen buys them ice cream in honeycomb cones and they sit outside the Acropolis. After kicking off her shoes, Gwen tells him about mythology, regaling him with the tales of punishment and pathos and blunder as he sits: listening, nodding, catching ice cream with his fingers as it drips down his chin. They stop off in a market on the way back to the hotel, and Phil buys her a pair of strappy sandals.

_phil: rome review: old; hot and arrogant in the face of september; i could not explore enough of it. 8/10_

Madrid is the same, with temperatures climbing into the twenties, but the buildings are polished and sparkling white. His audiences throw enthusiastic applauses around his head and ask him to sign printouts of his poems translated into Spanish. Paris welcomes him with lights throwing stunning architecture into glory despite the late hour; he walks the wide boulevards and cranes his neck to spy the top of the tower. The cityscape is dotted with grand peaks of towering buildings, draped in Renaissance clouds. Phil practises his intermediate French and buys a bouquet of flowers from a street vendor; retracts one, presses it dry between the pages of a hardback he brought with him, and presents the rest to Gwen. She asks him what she’s meant to do with them, they’re going to Amsterdam tomorrow, but hugs him anyway. He tells her she can do whatever she wants, so after dinner they catch the metro; Gwen throws each flower into the Seine, and they watch them drift away with the current. No one is around, so Phil makes them levitate and skim and dance along the water, before dropping under the water in a cloud of confetti.

“Are they gone?” Gwen asks.

Phil shakes his head. “I don’t like making things disappear. Conservation of mass. They’re still there, underwater.”

“But you’ll still happily conjure flowers out of nowhere for me.”

“Intermittently.”

In a small charity bookstore tucked behind the high streets, Phil buys a copy of Dan’s _Roses Gone By June_. It’s well-loved, and the cover is almost fuzzy beneath the pads of his fingers. On the train from Paris to Amsterdam, Phil juggles reading it with taking pictures of the French and Belgian countryside. He sends all the photos to Dan, even though Dan is currently on a flight from Iceland to Tasmania.

By the end of the three hours, Phil has cried, finished the book, cried again, and fallen a little bit in love with it. He doesn’t tell Dan this, however, just texts him a couple of short sentences.

_phil: read your book. it was alright._

An hour later, Phil is settled into his hotel room with a decaffeinated coffee and a copy of _Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire_ translated into French.

_dan: same to you._

-

_From: yourstruly@danhowell.co.uk_

_To: phil@nineleggedoctupi.co.uk_

_Subject: iceland & tasmania_

As I write to you, I am desperately trying to stay hydrated. As you know, Australia is awfully fucking humid and Tasmania is just the same, just a bit more tropical. I’ve gone through three bottles of water already. I’m a full time hobbit now: according to Twitter, it’s a good look. But my thighs are constantly itchy from heat rash and there’s the severe risk I may drown in a pool of my own sweat (giant height be damned!), so I’m not so sure. Louise is convinced I could get a tattoo and it would burn right off my skin by the time we leave Sydney.

When you’re on a tour of the world, you think you’ve seen everything. And then you go to Iceland, and you have to reevaluate your life choices.

It’s honestly something else, Phil. The geysers, the dormant volcanoes, the ice peaks, the waterfalls. The whole country is dynamic. We spent two out of the three days in the capital (which, btw, runs on geothermal power, that’s how many fucking volcanoes they have), but on the last day we went out to the countryside - except, countryside isn’t a fair word to use. It’s breathtaking, and no two parts are the same. Needless to say, I felt perfectly at home on the black sand beaches. Our flight was at three AM, so we stayed and went Northern Light-hunting. We saw a few. I almost cried. We felt like crap when we finally got on the plane, but it was worth it.

Onto Tasmania. The landscape is gorgeous. The water is so blue and the trees are so green. There are coves that display perfect gradients, from the white of the sand, through to turquoise, and finally to the jewelled blue of the depths. I’ve only just got here, and I’m already convinced this is a snapshot of paradise (corny, sorry). I wish I had time to do the hikes, but, alas, we are only here for a day. My main concern should be if I will become a sopping sponge by the end of my reading. It’s only a small audience of 200, but no one should have to bear witness to _that_.

I hope you’re reminding Gwen constantly that my offer still stands. Have a good time in Amsterdam. I highly recommend walking along the canals at dawn, if you can be arsed.

\- DH

_From: phil@nineleggedoctupi.co.uk_

_To: yourstruly@danhowell.co.uk_

_Subject: amsterdam revisited (feat. berlin)_

dan,

firstly, gwen thanks you again for the offer, but thinks you should wait until we get home. at the moment, she’s using me to get her around the world, and she’s enjoying it too much. murder would definitely ruin her experience.

amsterdam is just as you described, but also more. i won’t blame you for that. you may be a bestselling author, but no one can deliver the high points of a place quite like truly experiencing them can. your vocabulary, though, needs work. (i’m kidding, of course. but your book will come later.) i dragged gwen out at 5am to see the sunrise, but ended up caring more about the houses. you’re right, the golden age is a gift to humanity. i also saw The Bench, but didn’t want to sit on it, either, so i just stroked it. thank god the streets were empty, or i might have been arrested and you’d be receiving a ransom note instead of this email. i didn’t have time to go to all the art museums, but i did visit van gogh and anne frank. i thought i’d be fine, i’m not normally the sentimental type (not like you are) but by the end of it my stomach was a pit of slithering snakes.

i blame paris for this, but i have become slightly captivated with french musicals. i’ve downloaded a few on spotify (one on king arthur, the other on the sun king) and they accompany me on my journeys. i have tried to become fluent in french over the past few years, but mostly i just zone out and listen to their sweet, sultry voices… i hate to say it, but i think it has become an obsession.

which brings me onto your book.

i hate to admit it. i wanted to play it cool. but, holy shit. i didn’t know you were that good.

like, of course you’re good. i promise i had total faith in you. i just didn’t have any plans to cry on the train from paris to amsterdam. i loved it so much, though, dan. i almost went to bed with it, but alack, alas, i had already finished it. (not like that. NOT LIKE THAT. i meant reading it in bed. i was prepared to stay up into the early hours of the morning, and i would have got the robins to read it with me.)

i almost forgot berlin! sorry berlin, please don’t strangle me with sausages. you’ll completely ruin gwen and dan’s plans. anyway, berlin is good, but we leave again tomorrow. i’ve only seen the parts of it available to me on the way to and from my venues. the architecture is so eclectic, and parts of it look squeaky clean. the mix of old and modern is confusing, but i love it.

i go to prague, next. it’s not an obvious tour stop, but i’ve always wanted to go.

written another ten thousand words. i might release it on valentine’s day, just for the irony. i know books are normally announced way in advance, but, alas, i am a surrealist. fuck the bourgeoisie!

phil.

(ps. hope you can return my compliments with compliments of your own. anyone can access my blog for free.)

_From: yourstruly@danhowell.co.uk_

_To: phil@nineleggedoctupi.co.uk_

_Subject: RE: amsterdam revisited (feat. berlin)_

I wish you an excellent time in Prague. I have never paid attention to that corner of the globe, but after Googling it I regret that decision. It looks stunning. You must send me pictures.

I almost wish you had been spotted stroking Hazel and Augustus’ bench: that’s so weird and you need to be stopped. I’m glad you saw the beauty of Amsterdam like I did, though. (More like AmsterDAMN, amirite, hahahahaha…)

I must admit, I doubt I’ll ever listen to a French musical. But I’m sorry for making you cry on a train. I hope you had tissues.

Of course I’ve already read your stuff, you twat. And as I read down your blog (I scrolled through ten pages in one go, once. It was while in San Francisco.) I feel ever more idiotic for the things I said at that damn panel. I’ve never been entirely sure what Surrealism was, or what it meant to me, but I love your version of it. I especially love A MELTED BOULEVARDE, it’s so fucking weird, but incredible. I won’t lie, I don’t always understand poetry. I just read it and let the words flow over me. I did that with yours, too, but I must admit, the mere flow of the words was enough. Move aside, Andre Breton.

I go to Perth tomorrow, and we’re staying there for six days. At last, I get some time to do touristy things. Australia and me have a love/hate relationship. Hate is a strong word. The weather isn’t too bad, now, but the threat is always there, lurking.

Only a couple weeks and then I’m back in London. And only one more week for you! You lucky bastard. I hope that we can meet again in our home city. I realised I never battled you at Mario Kart. We both know who will win, of course.

\- DH

_From: phil@nineleggedoctupi.co.uk_

_To: yourstruly@danhowell.co.uk_

_Subject: prague_

dan,

holy wow! wowowwowow. prague is incredible. there are so many bridges and spires and statues, for one thing. it isn’t the city of a hundred spires for nothing. it’s the perfect mix of gothic, baroque, and river (i swear it’s at least 33% river.) a notable point of prague, of course, is its astronomical clock. it’s so peculiar, but i loved it. i’ll attach an image below, while i remember!

i wish i could say more, but you honestly have to go there to understand. or just go on google images and never stop scrolling down. either works. (perhaps i will drag you with me for an overnight trip in december, if you can make the time for a peasant like me.) one thing i can say is that there are a lot of statues of saints. we found a place that does marvellous pastries.

thank you so much for your kind words about my work! don’t worry, i’ve almost forgotten about your insults. do you want to know a professional’s thoughts on poetry? no one really fully understands poetry. it’s just what sounds good. there is meaning, but who can _fully_ understand what “We are the sighs of the glass statue that raises itself on its elbow when man sleeps / And shining holes appear in his bed / Holes through which stags with coral antlers can be seen in a glade / And naked women at the bottom of a mine” means? looking at you, andre breton.

enjoy perth while you can. you’ll miss it once you’re gone.

i go back to london in seven days, yes, via dublin and edinburgh. if only i could get a taste of the welsh, too, but we ran out of time and money. i love travelling and meeting people, but i have had to read the same poems over and over, and i am ready to fall into my bed and sleep for two weeks. i’ll wake up in time to welcome you back, though. you’re probably right about the mario kart tournament, but i challenge you to a duel anyway. i have to defend my honour. my cast comes off the day before i get back. i’ll be waiting for you.

phil.

_From: phil@nineleggedoctupi.co.uk_

_To: yourstruly@danhowell.co.uk_

_Subject: prague. again._

i miss you quite terribly. it is not an outright thing. but i keep seeing things and thinking of you. i want to spend time in your company again. can you blame me, when we get on so well? i’d accepted i wouldn’t make any new friends, but you’ve come and messed the norm of my life up. i can’t hate you for that. i want to see you again. i can’t remember what it’s like to laugh with you. i have a bad memory. i have a bad memory and i miss you.

i wish i could tell you about my magic, but i am scared. i wish i could tell you that i fancy you quite a bit, but i am scared. it’s dumb. i care for you, and trust you, and yet cannot bring myself to trust you with that knowledge. i think i would hate to put you in that position. i cannot have you choose between me and your father. you are too loyal, and you blame yourself, always. it would tear you apart, and it would be my fault!

telling you about who i am, what i can do, would be like placing my bloody, beating heart in your hands. you are standing over a ravine. i am bleeding out. that is the only way i can see us ending up, if i tell you. (i don’t know which secret i am thinking about, now. both.)

it’s not prague that has brought this on. i’ve been thinking about it a lot, in my travels. paris is the romantic city, but i love prague more, and i want you to be he-

**DELETED**

-

The final day of his tour, after his final signing, Phil sits in a local pub with Jack. His cast is off, his legs are crossed, and condensation rolls down his glass. Dan is asleep in a hotel in Adelaide.

Relieved to speak to another friend and to be home, Phil tells Jack everything. Without any hesitation. There isn’t much to tell, after all; other than the whole black magic accident (Jack begs for a personal recount of the tragedy) all Phil has to admit to is his newfound crush for bestselling novelist and Sugarscape’s Hottest Man of 2015 Dan Howell.

“But more of a concern -” Phil says.

“Sorry, _more_ of a concern? More of a concern than the literary assault, pining, and transatlantic longing?” Jack interrupts. He leans forward in his seat, pushes his hair out of his face.

Phil bats him away. “ _Yes,_ Jack, I know it’s hard to believe, but more of a concern _to me_ is the whole issue surrounding my...magic.” His voice dips, and he conceals his mouth with his hand. This area isn’t known for it’s violence - otherwise he wouldn’t live here - he doesn’t want to reveal his secret to everyone.

“Ah.” Jack withdraws.

“Exactly that,” Phil agrees, sighing. “All my closest friends know, and he’s one of my closest friends.”

“Then what’s the issue?” Jack spreads his hands wide.

Phil shoots him a look, _are you serious?_ “His father, mainly.” Jack gives him a blank stare. “Ivan Howell. Better known as the editor of _The Sauceror_ ,” he continues, helping Jack along.

Eyes going wide, he says, “ _The Sauceror?_ ” He leans back in his chair and whistles through his teeth. “Shit, man, you’ve hit the jackpot. Have you considered writing a book about it?”

Phil ignores him. “How did you not know that? Do you live under a rock?”

“A film-making one,” Jack answers absently. “So his dad’s a satirical editor. How is that a factor here?”

“Dan’s grown up in a magic-hating household! I don’t know his views on magic, we avoid talk of it at all costs, but I’d be willing to bet he shares the same views as his dad. Maybe the fact we never talk about it is a sign that he hates it.” Phil cards his fingers through his hair, pulling at his scalp.

“You know his swipe at Tolkien doesn’t mean he hates magic, right?”

“Or so Gwen said.”

“So go for it.”

“But I don’t know how he’s going to react!” Phil bursts, anxiety searing his sides. “I want to tell him, but I don’t. It’s tearing me apart! It’s not lying, but it is. It’s not a betrayal of trust, but it is. And then there’s the fact his family’s fortune comes from hating me. _And_ the fact we’ve only known each other, like, three months.”

“And there’s the whole...feelings,” Jack swallows the word and pulls a face, waving a hand as if batting the word away, “thing to weigh up.”

After a few years in the spotlight, Phil has perfected the art of not blushing - even if he finds it bloody hard not to do. “I don’t see how that’s relevant at all,” he deadpans.

“Oh, I don’t know, it feels rather relevant to me.”

“Really? That’s odd, because I don’t think it is.”

“It means you’re more invested,” Jack explains. “And - well. If Dan finds out one hidden part of you, you’ll probably spill your whole heart to him. Or he’ll figure it out.”

Slumped in his chair, “God. Fuck.”

“But you’re right, I don’t think it’s too relevant.”

Phil groans from behind his hand.

“Leave it a while, mate.” Jack places a hand on Phil’s shoulder. “He may come back and you’ll discover that actually you hate him.”

“What if I don’t?”

“Be a wonderful person. Use your magic for him. Ensure he can’t hate you. Even better, make him fall head over heels in love with you with all your chivalry and sorcery.”

Phil snorts. “As if.”

“It worked for me.”

Phil looks at him through a gap in his fingers. The bar is poorly lit - on purpose, and Phil isn’t complaining - but Phil can easily make out Jack in the humming amber glow. “No it didn’t. You’ve been single three years.”

“Yeah, you got me.” Jack takes a sip of his beer, and winces. “Can you cool this down for me, please?”

“Yeah, sure.” Once he’s sat up again, Phil waves his hand in the glass’ general direction.

Jack gasps and his stomach folds. “You missed.”

Phil grins. “I know.”

“You’re a bastard, even if you are a lovable one.”

“Let’s hope so.”

It is the only time Phil talks about it all out loud.

-

 **Dan Howell** _@danisnotonfire_

ich bin london

-

Train stations during winter are never fun places to be. It’s only November, but Kings Cross is burning cold; the temperature wraps around his waist and claws at his eyes. The wind streams through easily, and his coat billows out around his legs. Phil should have worn a jacket underneath his coat. At only seven o’clock in the evening, the outside is already jet black in the spaces salvaged between stores, houses, and street lamps. Bold against the night, pure white light rains down from the station’s ceiling, the intricate roof design looming and stark. At the moment, it is rather quiet, but several trains are due in soon - including Dan’s - and once they arrive, the station will become a breathing body once more, and the commuter’s breath will amalgamate into clouds above their heads.

Finding a plastic seat, Phil sits with his hands dug between his legs, and he watches the arrival board with controlled interest. He would use a spell to warm himself up, but Dan’s train from Manchester is due in three minutes, and it would be suspicious if Phil’s body temperature were normal in spite of it being near freezing, so he decides against it, instead settling down to wait. His knee bounces, and he hums a pop song under his breath.

Phil sees Dan before Dan sees him. Being as tall as he is, his head floats above most others, and Phil would recognise the disgruntled fringe anywhere. Dan’s coat is thick and black, cut off at his waist, the bagginess reeled in at the neck and the bottom of the sleeves. His suitcase rolls along dangerously near his heels as he takes his ticket from the barrier and strides out, head turning back and forth. Finally his gaze alights on Phil, and his face splits with a grin; heading towards him, he doesn’t run, but his steps have a clear purpose. Phil stands, smiling widely, but stays where he is.

Dan lets go of his suitcase and walks into Phil’s arms.

“Hi,” Phil says.

“I’m so fucking cold,” Dan mumbles.

“I’m sorry.” Phil rubs Dan’s arm with his hand to warm him up, and then pulls away. “I have a taxi waiting outside.”

“Brilliant.” Dan picks up the handle of his suitcase again; Phil offers to take his backpack with an outstretched hand, but Dan declines him with a shake of his head.

They decided a couple of days ago that it would be better if Dan spent the night at Phil’s when he got back to London: Phil’s house is closer to the station, for starters. His house has also been lived in for a week, and the central heating will have been on all day: in comparison, Dan’s apartment would be an arctic husk.

“The heating’s on, and I’ve got two plates warming in the oven.”

Dan follows Phil out of the station. “Pizza?”

“Of course.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re an enabler,” Phil tells him, pointing out their taxi. “I should be trying to eat healthy.”

“The sacrifices I have you make for me.” Dan’s face falls, and his eyes go to Phil’s arm.

Smiling fondly, Phil lifts his arm. “Relax, the cast has gone. It doesn’t hurt anymore. You’re cleared of your sins.” He tugs his sleeve down, and Dan studies the skin - it is blooming red from the cold, and there’s a rash near his wrist from where the cast itched, but otherwise it is clear. Dan brushes a finger along it, where the breaks were, and Phil’s arm tingles. “You can’t even tell that it used to be one hundred percent bruise.”

Dan bites his lip, but doesn’t apologise again. “I never got to sign your cast.”

“Don’t worry,” Phil waves to the taxi driver, who opens his door and steps out to help Dan with the boot. “I still have it at home. You’ve had months to plan your design, I have high hopes.”

-

Because Dan insists he is too tired to play Mario Kart, (“ _It would be embarrassing for you if I played you and still won,” Dan explains. “Which is exactly what would happen. I’m doing you a favour.” Phil is inclined to agree._ ) they decide to watch a film on Netflix instead. Phil sets Dan the task of finding one while he attempts to get the pizza out of the oven.

“Ow, shit!”

“Are you okay?” Dan jumps up at Phil’s exclamation, rushing through to stand at the kitchen door.

“Yeah, fine,” Phil mumbles around his finger, “just burned myself.”

“Of course you did, you twat. C’mon, run it under some water.” Dan catches Phil’s elbow and tugs him up, guiding him over to the sink; he runs the cold tap, and sticks Phil’s throbbing finger under it. Phil gasps - the freezing cold sears his skin.

“ _Ow_.”

“You have to keep it there,” Dan tells him. He takes a look at Phil’s face, contorted in discomfort, and adds, “Sorry.”

“I’m sure you’ll find a way to win my love back,” Phil says through gritted teeth.

“Don’t be dramatic.” Dan returns to the oven and ducks down, picking up the discarded oven gloves and pulling open the door; with ease, he extracts the pizza tray and places it on the top.

“Pizza cutter?” he asks, looking back to Phil. Phil nods to Dan’s left, and it takes a lot of his control not to make the drawer nudge itself open.

“Thank you.”

Dan turns around. There’s the low rumble of the drawer as it opens. As he rummages through, Phil stares at his back. “You come in here, demanding food and refuge, and _now_ you want the pizza cutter.”

Dan spins back round, pizza cutter in his lifted hand, and he flashes Phil an eager grin. “Sorry. I promise I’m a good guest.”

Phil stares blankly back at him. “Did I mention you’re stealing my jobs.”

Dan snickers, “Phexit.”

“More like Dexit. I’ll do it,” he addresses Dan’s raised eyebrow, “I will! I’ll kick you out. Also, make sure those slices are even.”

“I am, calm your tits.”

When Dan walks over to drop the cutter in the sink, Phil says, “Hi.”

Dan turns his head. Blinks at him. “Hi.”

“Um,” he says. “Excuse me, plates are in that cupboard down there. Stop dawdling.”

“Sorry, _Sir_ ,” Dan mocks, but follows Phil’s hovering finger.

“Right, I’m done here,” Phil announces. He turns off the tap, shakes his hand dry, and leaves Dan moving pizza slices from the tray to the plates.

He has some soothing salve in his bathroom, and he pulls the tub out of the cupboard under the sink. He tuts when he sees it is nearly empty, scoops out what he can, and rubs it tentatively onto the blistering skin. With a little muttered spell, the pain already begins to recede.

“Phil! Get your arse in here!” Dan calls.

“Coming!” Phil rushes back to find Dan lounging on the one three seat sofa, feet kicked up on the table next to the plates, hand on Minton’s stomach. He scolds, “Be quiet, I have neighbours,” and gestures to Dan to get his feet off the furniture. He rolls his eyes, but obliges.

“So you’ve met Minton?” Phil nods to Dan’s lap.

“Of course I’ve met Minton, he’s the best dog around. Aren’t you?” He scratches the back of Minton’s ears, and Minton begins yapping.

“Man’s best friend,” Phil says, dryly.

“What breed is he?”

“Who the fuck knows. He’s Minton, that’s all that matters.”

“Touche.” Dan watches as Phil taps his thigh, beckoning his dog to scurry over to him. “Are you sitting down?” Dan asks him.

Phil nods, but then raises a finger, “One more thing.”

“Ugh.”

“You won’t regret it!” Phil calls to him, as he runs into his room, lifts his hand, and his old cast and a black marker pen fly into his open hands. He goes back to the lounge. Minton lies on the floor, nose on his paws. Dan props up his head with his right palm to his cheek; the right sleeve of his jumper pools around his elbow. He grins, waving the items in front of him, and says, “I’m back.”

“Oh my God, I thought you were _joking_ ,” Dan laughs. He makes grabby movements with his hands until Phil walks over and gives them to him. The pen lid comes off with a pop, and Dan balances the cast on his lap.

“Don’t get pizza on it,” Phil cautions.

“I haven’t touched the pizza yet.” Dan brings it closer to his chest when Phil sits beside him and cranes his neck to see. “Don’t look, you bastard, it’s a surprise.”

“Alright, sorry.” Phil holds his hands up in surrender, and leans back heavily into the sofa. Dan makes a few finishing touches, and chucks the cast back.

“Watch it,” Phil says, the cast hitting his thigh. He picks it up, and stares at Dan’s sketch. He can feel the beginnings of a smile as he asks, “What is it?”

“An elf,” Dan answers simply, watching Phil and smiling, with his hand pressed to his mouth.

“Dan.”

“Phil.”

“Why is it named after me?”

“Would you have preferred an alien? Either would be applicable.”

“What are you on about?” Phil asks, but he thinks he knows, and he’s fighting the smile even harder.

“You look like an elf! You have pointy ears.”

“I do _not,_ ” Phil objects, but Dan has buckled into laughter, and Phil’s chest aches: he is rather endeared. “Right, give the pen to me.”

Dan grabs the cast off him after a minute or so of drawing. “Phil, what is it? Or more, what is it meant to be?”

“A hobbit. A very accurate hobbit.” Phil takes the cast back, and writes a final word. “There.”

“You named it after me.” Dan stares him down, the cast hanging from his left hand.

“Yes.” Phil struggles to tighten his mouth into a serious line.

“You’re calling me a hobbit.”

“Not at all.” Phil sniggers, and hides it with a cough. Dan’s stare intensifies.

“Right, whatever,” he dismisses after a moment, turning back to the TV screen.

Phil watches as Dan takes a piece of pizza and tears at it with his teeth, and says, slowly and innocently, “Dan, are you trying to angrily eat pizza?”

Through a mouthful, “Fuck off.”

“Dan…”

“What?”

“You hav-have a bit of sauce…” Phil trails off, unable to stop laughing.

“ _Fuck. Off._ ”

-

Despite the hobbit disputes and apparently constant insulting each other, their friendship manages to function, and a few days later Phil is heading round Dan’s for the Mario Kart tournament he was promised.

Dan’s house is only a few streets away, so Phil decides to walk. At four o’clock in the afternoon at the end of November, he catches the last moments of light before dusk, and he basks in them. The line between light and shadow is crisp; the air bounces against his chest and rattles pleasantly in his lungs; a rose flush rushes to his cheeks, and his fingers tingle. His jacket flaps around his abdomen, and the plastic carrier bag he has bashes against his leg.

Dan’s house reminds Phil of Amsterdam. It is terraced and narrow, painted jasmine white with a blue door; the number 241 is nailed to the front, above the knocker, and is coloured gold. The roof is lined with black timber three stories above Phil’s head.

The knocker is algid in Phil’s grasp. Knocking three times, he feels the vibrations reverberate through the wood. With the road’s clamour masking his footsteps, Dan catches Phil unawares as he swings the door open, and Phil startles.

“There is a doorbell,” are the first words Dan says to him, standing on the step above Phil.

“Boring.”

“And a door knocker isn’t?”

Phil studies the knocker: a basic shape, with a curve attached on a hinge to a shield shape, both metal. “You could do better.”

“Noted.” Dan picks the curve of metal up with his finger and lets it drop back down. “Come in, then.”

“Thanks.”

Silent, Dan walks back into his house, and Phil follows him, closing the door gently behind him. Dan waits for him halfway down the narrow hall, wearing a similar but not identical jumper to the one he wore when Phil last saw him and thick slipper socks on his feet. Wooden panels cover the floor, leading into carpet at each doorway and at the foot of the stairs; at different intervals down the way, a line of pegs for coats and jackets, a mirror, and one shelf of books line the wall. The lampshade is basic, and the overhead light is turned off - the light, instead, comes from a string of bulbs held up by hooks dotted along the edge of the ceiling. Phil almost expects to see a porthole, it’s so cabin-like.

Phil looks around him, and says, “This is nice.”

“I try.” Dan kicks at his right foot with his left.

“I really like it.”

“You can’t soften me up with pleasantries, Lester. I will beat you at Mario Kart. It’s gonna fucking happen.”

“Not while we’re stood here, you’re not.”

Dan grins. “Follow me.”

The living room is the first door on the right. As they turn to go in, Dan points at a door across the way - tucked under the staircase - and says, “The loo’s there.” Phil nods and doesn’t stop walking.

The overhead light is switched on in here, but shines dimly. The room is blooming with warm colours; almost golden armchairs and sofas, lamps and tangled fairy lights that undulate a colour that reminds Phil of buttercups; a light brown rug slumps across the carpet. A mantelpiece lies under the mirror, decorated with trinkets and photographs. In the corner, under the window, Dan has a desk covered with manuscripts and pens, with his laptop balanced at the end; the whole wall above it is one massive book case. At the sight of it, Phil’s mouth falls open.

“There’s another one by the stairs,” Dan tells him.

“I love it.”

“Because you’re lame. The number one loser.”

“And you are…?”

“I’m lame too, I’m just cooler than you because I own the fucking thing.” Dan grabs a remote - the TV is already set up, and is on mute - and plonks himself down, kicking his feet up.

Phil does the same, without putting his feet on any furniture, and says, “So, what’s your battle plan?”

“You’re getting no tactics out of me.”

“But -”

“Nope. You think you can break me, but you can’t.”

“I’ll just have to beat you instead, then.”

Dan snorts. “Dream on.”

-

Phil doesn’t know how they manage to make Mario Kart last more than two hours, but they do. Dan tells him it’s because he’s a sore loser, and keeps demanding more rematches. (Phil thinks it’s because Dan enjoys winning, too, but keeps his mouth shut.) Half way through, Dan goes to collect snacks from the kitchen. Phil follows him with his eyes until he’s out of sight, then expels a heavy breath and leans back in the sofa.

He could tell him. Just like that, as he comes in the room: take a handful of Doritos from him, then say, “Thanks. Hey, by the way, I have magic.” Could even go as far as adding, “Also I’m afraid I’m quite a bit in love with you, despite only talking to you in person a few times and keeping a very big secret to myself. No one wanted this to happen, especially me. Hope we can still be friends.”

Phil doesn’t tell him, but he does stick his hand in Dan’s face when he wins for the fifth time. Half way through the snacks, Dan brings in a bottle of wine, and Phil feels his brain whirlpool away into giddiness as the evening progresses. Even then, he tells him nothing, just swears and complains about his temperamental remote (“ _Aw, blame the remote, Phil_ ”). When drunk, Dan leans his head forward as he laughs, curling against it like it’s a blow to his chest, and his hair tickles Phil’s nose. What must be a very drunk part of Phil’s mind considers Dan is flirting with him, but that thought is quickly dismissed.

“Pay _attention,_ you spork,” Dan says, Phil falling off the track for a third time.

“I’m _trying_ , be kind.”

“How are you trying? People who try don’t fall off three times.”

“It’s a hard track!” Dan rolls his eyes - they’re glittering behind the folds of his grinning cheeks. The room feels warmer, Phil’s face burning a merlot red, and he says, “Move over, you’re in my line of sight.”

“And that’s a bad thing?”

“I can’t see the screen.” He can, but he’s getting distracted.

“Your loss,” Dan grumbles.

-

Eight o’clock, and Dan has fallen against Phil’s side. The waiting screen loops and loops in front of them.

(He’s so _warm_ , and the shadows of his eyelashes tickle his cheek bones, and the stain on his lips, swollen, is a presage.)

Phil begins shifting, unhooking his legs from each other and placing his hands on either side of him - missing Dan’s by a centimetre. “Uh, I’m gonna go.”

Dan blinks up at him. “Already?”

“I have work tomorrow.” Phil shrugs apologetically.

“Okay.” Dan sits up and wipes his eyes. “Okay. Did you bring anything?”

“Nothing, apart from this.” Phil pats his jacket, messily folded beside him.

“Cool.”

Dan yawns. “I think you need to sleep,” Phil says. and brushes a crisp crumb off his shoulder.

“Thanks,” Dan says, and continues, “don’t be ridiculous, I’ll be fine. It’s you.”

Phil raises his eyebrows. “Me?”

“You tire me out. You bore me,” Dan teases, and Phil’s heart slumps. Only a little. He’s not that embarrassing.

“Sorry to ruin your evening.” Phil stands up.

“You didn’t.” Dan reaches out to swat him, but can only reach Phil’s waist - this doesn’t stop him.

“Should I help tidy this up?” Phil begins to collect the series of plates and glasses scattered over the table, his feet sinking into the rug.

“Nah, I’ll do it later.” Working himself up to it, Dan pushes himself up into a standing position. “Let’s make your exist swift and clean.”

While Phil toes on his shoes and puts on his jacket, Dan leans against the banister, hair split over his forehead, lips parted. (Mouth breather.)

“Goodnight,” Phil bids him farewell, fingers clasping the door. Whispering a canticle, the wind sweeps into the narrow hallway.

“It’s only eight.”

“Goodnight,” Phil insists, smiling.

“Goodnight,” Dan acquiesces. He stretches a hand out and paws at the air. Phil waves back, and turns, and shuts the door. (He doesn’t hug him. He thinks if he did, he might never let go.)

-

 **Dan Howell** _@danisnotonfire_

can't believe i beat @AmazingPhil at mario kart. wait, yes i can. he was shit.

 

-

With Phil’s commission and Dan’s new ideas for another book, there’s no time for the trip to Prague. They do talk about it, which catches Phil by surprise. When Dan brought it up, he had stayed silent until Dan reminded him he needed to speak. When Dan said he’d love to go, but everyone is too busy, Phil had nodded and said, _absolutely, I agree._ When Dan said he’d love to go next year, though, Phil enthused over the suggestion, and felt his chest balloon until he could float away.

Still, they visit each other plenty over the next month or so, and Phil can’t quite believe his luck. They text and call over Christmas, and Dan invites him over with some friends for New Year’s. Phil thinks he might be dreaming.

“I’ve got a new idea for a book,” Dan tells him, seven minutes to one in the morning. Everyone else has left; the window was left open, and the breeze flaps between them like a feather.

“That’s great.” Phil turns over on the couch to face him. Dan’s eyes fix on his in the low light, and don’t stray away. Phil hiccups, squeezes his eyes shut, and when he opens them again, Dan is still watching - smiling, gently, like he doesn’t know he’s doing it.

“This one is going to be happier, I think. It feels like it. I know what to write about. I don’t - I like writing poignant stuff, I won’t take that side of it away. But I have the beginnings of a new perspective. I could write about friendship and love now, if I wanted…” Dan tugs at the collar of his shirt.

“Instead of loneliness and doom,” Phil finishes the sentence for him.

Dan nods. The shadow sharpens his jaw. “People like my stuff because it’s dark.”

Phil shakes his head. “Don’t worry about that. Your work is incredible; they won’t care what the tone is, as long as you are your genius and profound self.”

“People like my work because it reminds them of their own humanity.”

“Humanity has more faces than just pity and evil. Than insecurity and doubt. Love is also humanity.”

“One day I think I will learn those faces as well as I have learnt the bad ones.”

“You recognise them?” Phil checks, propping his chin up on his hand. The cheap beer is fizzing in his fingers.

Thinking for a moment, Dan hums to himself. “Barely. Like a celebrity I’ve seen on the TV a couple of times.” He grins, and Phil laughs with him; the sound tangles in the quilt Dan has thrown over the seat, and is dislodged when Dan pulls his chair closer and Phil’s heart thumps in his chest. “When I know them better, I can name them, and I can write about them like I can write about the people I love. When,” he repeats, scoffs, and says, “if.”

“You will.”

“Thank you.”

“What for?”

“Because you’re the one who’ll make it happen.”

“Ugh, don’t say I’m the annoying social butterfly who sets you up with everyone in this extended metaphor.” Phil buries his face in the cushions.

“No.” Dan kicks him in the stomach - not hard, considering he is sitting upright in an armchair, less than a metre away from where Phil lounges, recumbent, on the sofa. “You’re the one who insists we have mutual interests after I’ve given up on them a few times. Eventually, I give in, and I fall deep in platonic love with them.”

“So this isn’t a Blind Date situation.”

“I’m not enabling your guilty pleasures.”

Phil glares at him, and Dan pretends he can’t see.

“Do you want to see some early plans and shit? When they exist?”

Staring up at the ceiling, Phil comments, abstractedly, “You’re a pretentious dick whose work has started filtering into his everyday speech.”

“Only my drunk speech.”

“And you live in a shithole and you buy too many fairy lights, in spite of your three billion best sellers.”

“Is that a yes?”

Phil chucks a cushion at him; Dan flails to catch it, and still fails.

Quietly, Phil laughs, and turns over on to his side. Dan stares back at him. The traffic is humming quietly on a faraway main road, the gentle purr of engines. Not looking away, Phil lets his arm swing into the space between them.

“You’re not allowed to tell anyone. This never happened,” Phil tells him.

“What didn’t?”

“Of course I want to read it.” Phil’s breath is dampening the fabric of the sofa. “I want to read any drafts, plans, or works in progress that you have.”

“I can’t believe it.”

“What?”

“I’ve found someone to go through drawers of junk for me. I’ve been meaning to have a sort out for years.”

Phil makes his fingers twine in the shaft of street light that falls in the room. “You’re very lucky I’ve already used the cushion.”

“Yes,” Dan says, pensive, with a cadence that would carry away on the wind. “I am lucky.” From his slouched position in his chair, he reaches out and touches Phil’s fingers with his own. They each hold their hands there.

“I do love you,” Phil decides he wants to tell him, as if there is any question, any doubt brought into this small space. His stomach does not twist or spit.

“That’s what I mean.” Dan squeezes Phil’s fingers, then retracts his hand. “I love you, too. You are the greatest friend I’ve ever had.”

Phil is, somehow, content with this.

-

The first time Dan leaves something at Phil’s house - a _phone charger_ , out of all things - Phil calls him up, and delivers it the next day. But as their visits become more and more frequent, and more and more of their belongings mingle and mix, they give up. They see each other most days, anyway, and in terms of time spent at each residence, Dan’s house is as much Phil’s as Phil’s house is his.

“Stop feeling guilty. Your home is my home,” Dan tells him, with a flourish of his arm, when Phil apologises for being over so often.

Phil ducks his head, squeezes the arm of the chair instead of Dan’s hand. “Thank you.”

Dan drops his cordiality to say, “don’t thank me, I don’t have any choice, you just won’t fucking leave and the situation’s been forced on me,” but Phil can identify the glow in his eyes, the giveaway tenderness to the edges of his smile.

“At least I don’t leave Minton behind,” Phil points out.

“I fail to see how that would be a bad thing.”

After that, Dan turns up at Phil’s house unannounced, whenever he pleases, and Phil follows suit.

(“At least I have magic,” he tells Gwen, “so I can quickly tidy up when he shows up.”

“Hiding the evidence, are we?”

“I would do nothing of the sort.”)

-

“Isn’t your meeting with Gwen now?” Dan asks from a seat in Phil’s lounge. He takes up the whole sofa, his laptop balanced on his bent legs. Minton is burrowed in the space between his feet and the back of the chair.

It’s the middle of January, and Phil’s book is heading towards the final stages. The meeting is for a general check in, and to show some possible front covers he could have. It’s all a little daunting.

“Yes,” Phil laments. “Are you in the middle of writing?”

“Yes.”

“So you can’t really...move…”

“If you need…”

“No, no.” Standing up from his place across the room, Phil stretches his legs and arms. “You can stay. I’ll be back in a few minutes, anyway.”

“Or twenty.”

“Well, obviously. It was a figure of speech to emphasise the temporary nature of my departure.”

“Don’t patronise me.”

“Don’t be pedantic, then.” Phil flicks his head on his way to the front door. He pulls on his coat. “Behave.”

“The place will be more squeaky clean than when you left it.”

Phil audibly scoffs. “I asked for good behaviour, not a miracle.”

Dan begins to sing, “You gotta have fai-”

“No!” Phil objects, and cuts him off with a slam of his door.

-

Dan looks up from his laptop when Phil returns, the door clunking shut behind him. “How’d it go?”

“Good, fine, yeah,” Phil replies, fighting to catch his breath.

“‘Good, fine, yeah’,” Dan repeats with a derisive emphasis, Phil unzipping his jacket and chucking it on the floor beside him. He frowns. “Did you _run_ here?”

“I didn’t fancy your chances with Minton. If he attacked, it would be game over for the nation’s sweetheart.” Phil leans far back into the sofa, expels a strong exhale before sitting up again. “Okay, I’m fine. Speaking of, where is Minton?”

“In the kitchen, eating, as harmless as ever. It’s the house plants I need to watch out for, I swear one winked at me earlier. Should I call someone?”

Phil deems it inappropriate to mention the singing herbs in his garden. “When will the questions end?”

“Not any time soon.”

Phil collapses back into the sofa, chest falling and rising while he stares at the ceiling.

“Don’t kill me…” Dan begins.

Phil looks at him askance. “What is it?”

“I never asked -” Phil rolls his eyes and settles down to listen, “but why is he called _Minton_?”

Phil cannot help but grin. “My dog ate my shuttlecock.”

“Say no more, _oh my God_. You’re so lame.”

Phil shrugs. “I’ve been called worse. You said he was eating?” Dan nods. “I don’t know how much food was left.”

“He hasn’t come back to complain. I’d quite like to join him,” Dan hints.

Sighing, Phil asks, “What’s the time?”

“Just past seven.”

Phil lifts his hands and lets them drop heavily back onto the sofa, on either side of him. “But I just sat down!”

“But I’m hungry!” Dan argues, in the same disgruntled tone. He pushes himself into standing and hits Phil’s shoulder. “C’mon, Grumpy, I’m sure there’s something in your massive fridge freezer worth your pain.”

“I severely doubt it. Freddos aren’t cheap anymore,” Phil grumbles, but concedes. He tidies up Dan’s cable and laptop with a tired sweep of his hand, before following him down the corridor.

Dan shouts, “And boy do I know it!”

-

“I never asked,” Phil says, finishing his mouthful of pasta, “how _your_ writing went.”

Dan looks at him over his own bowl, fork stuck into the food. “I thought you were done with questions.”

“Stop living in the past,” Phil quips.

Dan gives a sliver of a smile before looking back down at his food. “It went okay, I think. Got a few scenes written down when they came to me. Nothing spectacular.”

“I’m sure that’s not true. Scenes came to you, at least. That’s always a good sign.”

“Mhm.”

“Any bestseller material, do you reckon?”

“Phil, you know as well as I that material _never_ seems like bestseller material.”

“And yet, somehow, we manage it,” Phil adds.

Dan nods, turning thoughtful for a moment. “We could be the ultimate writing duo, couldn’t we?”

“That’s what Buzzfeed thinks.”

“Okay, but you know what I mean. We get on well. We both write, and apparently we write well.”

“‘Apparently’? Speak for yourself, Howell.”

“Never have you ever sounded less like Phil Lester.” Dan kicks him under the table. “What I’m _trying_ to say, if my critics will let me, is that if we did something together, wrote something together, we could, theoretically, break the literary world.”

“I have always wanted to do a Kim K,” Phil fancies.

“Who hasn’t wanted to be poured in some ambiguous oil substance while posing nude in front of a camera?” Dan clears his throat. “Anyway.” Waiting for a reply, he shifts in his seat, pushing pasta round his plate.

Phil puts him out of his misery. “I’d love to write something with you, Dan. One day. I don’t know about now, I have my book and you have yours…”

“No, I know. Not now, obviously. And I will procrastinate the idea for ever.”

“So will I. Maybe we aren’t the ideal writing couple, after all,” Phil muses.

“It might result in a double murder,” Dan agrees.

“The risks would be worth it. Maybe I could finally find out how you come up with all those incredible quotes.”

“And maybe I could prove that you’re high when you write.”

Phil pulls a face. “My trade secrets will be protected by contract. Gwen can compose one.”

“Deal. No one’s questionable, maybe illicit, methods will be exposed.”

“But what would we write about?”

Dan finishes, pushes the plate away from him, and leans back in his chair. The kitchen is partly lit, a backdrop of shadow behind their table. Phil’s eyes are attracted to the only light - the crest of it as it drips down Dan’s nose and neck, the moon pinned to the corner of the window behind him. “The ideas will come to us naturally. They always do.”

“That always ends in me bearing my whole heart,” Phil says, “and it gets messy.”

“Me too.” Dan smiles at him, a treaty balanced between them, a sign of vulnerability, all in that one look. He lowers his chin and dips his voice and says, “I’d trust you with mine.”

“O-okay.” He stutters, but there is a flood of confidence in him, for it is true, “I’d trust you with mine, too.”

-

The end of January is at his back, a drape of wind on his shoulders, and leaves that should be long gone kicking around in the seams of the pavement. The door knocker is cold in his grasp. It falls back to the door, bouncing once, and Phil goes down a step. He looks around while he waits: the charcoal clouds in the dimming sky, the floods of light flat on the floor, the flicker of satellite skimming the rooftops.

When Dan answers the door, Phil turns his head back, looking sheepish and feeling guilty. “Sorry. You weren’t answering your phone,” he explains. “I wanted to check you were okay.”

Behind his watery eyes and swollen nose, Dan softens. “I haven’t been abducted by aliens, or kidnapped, or killed by a Game of Thrones cliff hanger. I’m just quite ill.” His voice is nasal and rough.

“I knew you were ill, I didn’t know how bad it had got.”

“Worse. And my phone is lost in a pile of tissues. Sorry I didn’t answer you.”

“You’re forgiven. May I come in?”

“At your own risk.” Dan leaves the doorway open for Phil to enter. Phil shuts the door, the warmth of Dan’s home soaking into his skin immediately, and hangs his coat on the hook he always uses.

“You weren’t joking,” Phil says, entering the living room and observing the bins full of tissues, the pile of blankets left on the floor.

“Everything I say is filled with sincerity, Phil,” Dan tells him, and sits down in the crease he’s made for himself. “I got this far, and now I’m stuck.”

“It hurts to move?”

“It hurts to not be lazy,” Dan corrects, shooting him a reassuring but entertained smile. He clears a space on the sofa, and gestures for Phil to fill it. Phil does so. “It’s the thirtieth today, right?”

“Yes.”

“And your birthday is…”

“Tomorrow, yes.”

Dan coughs. “Sorry my lungs hate you.”

“I think they hate you more,” Phil tells him, sympathetic as he puts a hand on Dan’s shoulder and bows his head to study Dan closer. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“It’s just a cold, calm your worried tits.”

“I think that was a compliment. Anyway, I brought something for you which I thought might help.” Phil pulls a tub of a balm he made out of his bag. “You rub it on your nose and under your eyes, and it makes it less sore and swollen.”

“I didn’t become friends with you for your herbal bullshit,” Dan argues weakly.

“It works.” Phil shoves the tub in Dan’s face. “Put it on.”

“Why?”

“So I can prove you wrong,” Phil insists, only half lying, and puts the tub under Dan’s nose. “Put it on, or I will.”

“I’m letting you nowhere near my snotty face,” Dan warns. He sighs, and takes the tub from Phil. He stands and walks into the middle of the room, so he can see himself in the mirror. The tub opens with a pop, and Dan wrinkles his nose. “Ugh, this stinks!”

“Oi, you have a cold! You can’t smell, I’m sure it’s just a placebo effect.”

“Okay, Frankenstein.”

“Dan.”

“What?” Dan turns to look at him, a dollop of balm on his fingers.

“You don’t need that much.”

Dan squares his jaw and glares into the mirror. “Thanks for telling me, _Phil_.”

While Dan rubs the balm into his skin, Phil taps a tune onto the seat of the sofa; when Dan turns back around, the light green of the balm faded into his skin, Phil mutters a quick spell. The balm glows for a split second in the low light.

“And now?” Dan asks.

“We wait.” Phil gives him a shit-eating grin. His head throbs with the ache to just _tell him._

-

“How do you feel now?” Phil asks two hours later, with the sky like treacle and his eyes straining in the low light of the room. Dan refuses to turn anything other than the lamps and fairy lights on, and Phil has to take pity on him, apparently, because he’s ill.

“I am still 90 percent mucus,” Dan replies, “but I don’t feel like it anymore. My face feels better.”

“Good.”

Dan lolls back in the sofa, and Phil leans on his side to join him. “I can’t believe that herbal bullshit of yours worked.”

“Oi.” Phil prods his arm, and Dan opens one eye to regard him. “You can’t call it bullshit if it worked, Dan.”

“Well, we think it worked.”

“Your face looks better.”

“Maybe it’s a placebo effect,” Dan argues, standing to walk to the mirror. He pushes his chin out and twists his neck, the light moulding around him.

“Sure it is,” Phil teases, coming to join him and staring pointedly at the space under Dan’s eyes - once irritated, now pale and milder. “That’s why I think it looks better. A secondhand placebo.”

“You think it worked because you want to be proved right, you dick.”

Phil laughs. “It clearly did.”

Dan throws a pointed finger in the direction of the pot, perched on the shelf over the fireplace. “What’s even in it, anyway?”

“Um, mint, lavender,” Phil recounts, hand rubbing his upper arm. “And some, er, other things.”

“Sounds like bullshit.”

“If that’s the case, you can wash it off and I’ll take the rest home.”

Dan picks the tub off the mantlepiece and plays it between his hands. “I’d rather not.”

“You’re just being stubborn,” Phil realises, gleefully.

“And _that_ is exactly why. I can’t fit you and your ego in this house,” Dan says, deadpan, “it’s just not possible.”

-

“So, what are your thoughts on Zealand?” PJ has two mugs of steaming tea in his hands, pushing the door of his lounge shut behind him.

Phil takes his mug from PJ, fills his cheeks with air and releases it slowly. PJ is a close friend of his, and is working alongside Jack for the New Zealand shoot, and when PJ invited Phil round his home to catch up, Phil accepted with the expectation of the topic being brought up. Not this early on, though, but then PJ was never one to be mindful to the predictable.

“I have no certain answer to give, Peej,” Phil says, carefully, “I’d like to go, but -”

“You want to go, what’s the problem? Is it Jack? Because that I can understand.”

“ _No_ , it’s not Jack,” Phil says, elbowing him in the side - his tea sloshes, cresting just beneath the rim. “You’re an awful friend.”

“I thrive off the make believe, off the reaction certain words can provoke.”

“An awful friend,” Phil repeats, and takes a hesitant sip of his drink.

“Perhaps by standard conventions,” PJ accepts. “But, seriously, what’s the issue?”

“I have a life here, PJ. I can’t just take off for three weeks or whatever and leave all my shit behind.”

“It would be work.”

“I know, I know, but I - I don’t know what my life will be like in a month. I’ve already had to push the release date of my book back, I may not be able to risk it.”

“The New Zealand air works wonders on the imagination.”

Phil gives a fond smile, gazing at the ripples of his tea. “I’m sure it does. But I don’t think leaving home for so long is for me - for my job or me personally.”

“You’re allowed to have doubts,” PJ says, watching him over his cup of tea.

“I know. I’m allowed to have doubts as long as I leave enough room for me to grow,” Phil replies, raising his eyebrows at the line. “But, Peej, there’s growing, and then there’s being flung out of a plane.”

“That wasn’t on the schedule.” PJ frowns. Phil gives him a levelled look, and PJ obediently drops the facade. “I know you’re busy. It’s okay if you can’t come. But we could really use your expertise. You can work magic on anything. Pardon the pun,” PJ adds, in response to a look from Phil.

“I’ll think about it,” he promises PJ. He turns his gaze to his surroundings; PJ’s lounge is cosy, with block colours and the lilting scent of a winter candle, surfaces packed comfortably with trinkets and books and camera equipment. There’s a photo of himself, PJ, Jack, and some other university friends propped on the mantelpiece.

“You may hate the idea at first, but you may find that you love it.”

“That doesn’t always happen,” Phil points out, not comforted. The book tour was one thing: he was always moving, then, seeing new people and sights. He was the centrepiece to that journey, in a way. On a film set, in the same location for three weeks, he’ll be navigating his own wishes and needs with a whole crew. He won’t be able to collapse in a heap when he needs to, and he won’t constantly be busy - he’ll be following the path his superiors set for him. Plus, he can only take so much travelling in one year.

“It’s happened before.”

Phil looks at him. “When?”

“Two words: Dan Howell. I specifically remember that there was a hashtag revolving around your feud, but now you’re best of friends.”

Phil snorts. “Dan hates Tolkien but his personality redeemed him. New Zealand isn’t a person.”

“You can’t say I didn’t try,” PJ sighs. “How is he, anyway?”

Clasping his cup with two hands, Phil shrugs. “I don’t know. Fine, last time I heard. He couldn’t make it, all I know.”

“Yes, I figured that much,” PJ says. “Probably on a date with _Kate_.” He wears a childish, teasing smile.

There’s a plunging jolt to Phil’s stomach, the scaffolding of his body falling away under itself - like his tea has transformed into acid, like he’s fallen from a tightrope and his body has folded in two with the impact. “Wh-what do you mean?” he asks, with a wide, beseeching gaze.

“You know, Kate? His girlfriend?”

Phil pushes his lip into a firm line and shakes his head. A tidal wave of white noise is flooding his head. The moon and sun have collided in the space between his eyes.

“You didn’t know? Oh, Phil, I’m so sorry…” PJ moves forward to wrap an arm around Phil’s shoulders, but Phil withdraws. _Keep it contained_. If he moves now, if he breaks the walls he’s desperately building up, everything will be drawn to the surface like blood to a wound.

Phil wills his hands not to shake. He stares at the dregs of his drink. The mug has gone so cold, suddenly. “What do you mean, sorry?”

“Well, um, you two are so close, and he didn’t tell you. That must be hard to find out,” PJ explains slowly. Phil blinks forcefully. “Also,” PJ continues, met with a stony silence, “it’s obvious you care for him quite a lot. I just assumed…”

Phil shakes his head again. “It’s not like that.” Gritted teeth. It’s not harder to breathe, but each breath is heavier. He’s conscious of every part of his body, every root and branch and pulse.

“Okay. I’m sorry.” Phil hates how PJ’s speaking: careful and soft, as if more than a silk touch will dismantle him. More so, he hates that it’s true.

“It doesn’t matter,” Phil declares, forcing the rest of the tea down his throat.

“It does, he should have told you. You shouldn’t have heard it from me first.”

“How long?” Phil asks. He buries his head between his shoulders, pushes his beating heart six feet under.

“Phil, I -”

“How long have they been dating?” Phil presses.

PJ sighs. He catches one of Phil’s wrists in his hand, holds it tight between his palms until it stops quaking. “A month, I think.”

A month. Just after New Year’s. When Phil gave him the balm and said he’d trust him with his heart.

“Do I know her?”

“No. None of us do, really.”

“‘Us’?”

“His friends. Your friends.”

“Right.”

“This isn’t about you, Phil. This isn’t your fault.”

“I need to go.” His voice wobbles and his mouth is filling with rocks and his legs bend under his full weight when he stands up. “Minton needs feeding, and the windows are open, and I think it’s going to rain.”

PJ stands, too, placing himself between Phil and the door. “Phil. He should have told you. Don’t let yourself think this is your ruin.”

“No, yeah, you’re right,” Phil says, voice pulled tight. His hand goes to his mouth. He blinks hard. “Um. I just need to go.”

“Okay.” PJ watches as Phil gathers his belongings, knuckles white and heart pumping salt around his body. “At least let me walk you home? Please?”

“No, that would be a waste of your time. I’ll be okay. I’m not angry at you, Peej, you’re right, it’s about him, he should’ve told me…”

“You’re gonna talk to him about it?”

“Probably.”

PJ nods. “Don’t let it ruin the pair of you. Sort it out as friends.”

Phil gives a weak smile. “I can’t make any promises.” PJ opens his mouth to speak again, but Phil cuts him off. “Thank you for having me. I’ll text you when I’m home.”

“Phil.” PJ makes him stop just before the front door. “I’ll say it again, _don’t think this is your ruin._ This isn’t everything you are.”

“No, but it damn well feels like it right now.” Phil grips the doorknob but doesn’t open the door.

“ _Phil_.” He wishes PJ would stop saying his name, stop making it obvious there’s nothing he can say to help.

“I’ll sort it out. I will. I’ll sort it out, and it’ll be over.”

-

Phil would go over to Dan’s right now, if he could. He’d go over, and yell and cry and ask questions he doesn’t want to know the answers to. But he’s scared away from the thought by the knowledge that Dan most likely isn’t home, and that, if he is, Phil will have to meet her.

And if he were to go, and Dan wasn’t home when Phil got there, Phil would wait, knees tucked to his chest, and he might meet her if she comes back with Dan. And she would be beside Dan while Phil hurled everything he had, and clutched to Dan with bloody hands afterwards.

And Phil can’t do that. He’s heartbroken, and a liar, and a sorcerer, and a whole variety of things Dan would probably hate him for, if only he knew - but he’s not a homewrecker. He can’t walk in and lose his temper, use his grief to tear them apart.

The other thing stopping him is himself. The state he’s in - eyes stinging with tears, fists quaking, emotions raw and slick over his skin like his heart is jelly, or a pulp of rotting roses - he never wants Dan to see. It’s not a good plan, if he wants to win this...whatever it is. He’s too vulnerable, too easily read.

So he’ll return later.

Water is sticking to the sides of the road, dirtied and clogged with damp leaves. With each passing car, there is a splash like the hum of thin metal. Phil stares blindly in front of him at the austere brick walls, the splashes and the reddening crescent patterns on his palms merely distant details. He almost misses his bus. He comes back to himself, gets on, buys a ticket, and slumps against the window.

He’ll return later. Not much later - no, his patience can’t stand that. At around eight, probably. He could text Dan, he supposes, and innocently inquire into whether he’s home or not. No. That would feel untruthful.

He’ll return later. His broken heart will crumble into embers at the bottom of his chest, and those embers will kindle into anger - a coiled, burning fury that nothing will extinguish.

Betrayal and heartbreak are funny things: the key emotion is hurt, a weak, brittle feeling, and with it is the knowledge that, maybe, it is not their fault. And yet it transforms into a chimera, a beast of aggression that is perhaps undeserved, but necessary, if only to conceal the fragility underneath. The blazing flames of a fire are only found to hide the gaping holes left behind. Phil does not want to listen to this visceral call for vengeance and pain, but it feels like it is the only way out. He’ll regret it, but it’s the only way to emerge with any dignity.

Phil’s foot falls through the gap between the bus step and the pavement; he stumbles on, dodging a passerby. The bus kicks up a wave of water as it takes off, hissing, and Phil watches the distance spread out between them.

-

The following hours pass in the prickling sensation of fidgeting fingers and bouncing feet. Phil thought he perfected the art of passing time, especially when a designated part of the future was greatly anticipated, but the slow crawl of the minute hand tells him otherwise. He works on his book the best he can, skipping the joyful part he’d planned to write and approaching a scene of split fists and split trust and split ends; he stands up four times in an hour to get another glass of water. Minton rolls on the carpet at his feet, and Phil prods him a few times with his toes, knowing that as soon as he leaves his work, he won’t be able to return.

He awaits eight o’clock with a sour taste in his throat, with impatience and anxiety, but he has no idea what he will do once the time comes. He gets as far as Dan answering the door, and then the scene shatters. Not wanting to think about it, he decides the words will come to him in the moment, and starts describing what heartbreak looks like in a country town where time runs coils around people’s heads and singing makes the crops grow.

-

Black slugs of cloud squirm in the dusk, ensnared in a net of mist and navy blue. Houses are illuminated by light hanging down in long strands from concealed fixtures and old lampposts, casting their faces into porcelain; shadows messy and the shades coming down in rough shapes, like mould or dried blood. Footsteps are loud and echoing on the pavement. Cars slip past. The world is aching and still: a photograph sewn into the sky, each street a reflection of the one before.

He stands alone on the doorstep. He holds himself still, as he hurtles towards an inexorable event. Half of him hopes that when Dan opens the door, he is alone - the other half of him dares to hope he never will. The embers are turning over in his stomach, glowing a comfortable warmth, ready to ignite and flare up at the slightest provocation. His body hums with the promise of something - redemption, perhaps, or a solution - but that will surely fall apart soon.

 _Soon_ gives way into _now_. The door clicks open.

“Phil!” Dan’s smile is a gaping trap door. In a faraway part of Phil’s mind, he recognises the jumper Dan is wearing. “I wasn’t expecting to see you today.”

“Today is truly a pioneer of surprises,” Phil says between his teeth.

Dan’s mouth swings shut. He frowns. “Are you alright? Has something happened?”

Phil almost shakes his head to quell his worrying, but he fights the urge. “Are you gonna let me in, or not?” he snaps. “Please,” he adds, not quite belatedly - in an act of guilt, or in an attempt to conceal his true motives, he can’t decide.

“Of course, sorry.” Dan steps aside, beckoning him in and scratching his temple. “You must be cold,” he says, gesturing to Phil’s light jacket and shirt, clearing his throat.

Dan doesn’t know that Phil has a spell working away on his body right now, making his body flush an easy red with heat. Phil just humphs an agreement and pushes through the doorway.

“Do I need to take my shoes off?” Phil flings the question behind him as he works his way down the gangway of a hall, sidestepping a pair of trainers and a pile of books waiting to be taken upstairs.

“Stepped in any shit recently?” Dan fires back. Joking. Phil ignores him.

Phil walks into the living room. He turns the light on, not having to look to do so. The curtains are pulled shut, a gap buckling between them; the room is tidy, but lived in: the way Dan often leaves things. The casual and careful footprints of an occupant who either doesn’t stay anywhere long, or is so consistent in his location that the room around him is barely affected - just a small bend or wrinkle in the appearance of the room, a mug left on the side, a cushion falling onto its side. Dan never struck Phil as being a hurricane. Clearly, his habits don’t reflect his true nature.

Phil turns to face the door as Dan walks through. Molten rock is building pressure in the pit of his stomach.

“Are you not staying long, then?” he asks Phil.

 _I don’t plan to_ , Phil thinks.

“So,” Dan goes on, clapping his hands together. His eyes go up to the main light and come back down. “For what do I owe this pleasure?”

Phil knows he’s tantalising him. As soon as Dan opened that door, Phil threw him into a whirlpool of twisting reasons and veiled thoughts; Dan is desperately trying to catch on, to feel the situation and figure it out. He doesn’t know the fruit he’s reaching for will pull away when he comes near.

Dan tries one final time, “Phil,” stepping forward with a hand offered out. Phil has had enough.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Dan’s hand falls back to his side, a hollow clap on his thigh. “What are you on about?”

“You didn’t tell me,” Phil says, slowly, staring at the ground at Dan’s feet, “and I’d like to know why.”

“Didn’t tell you _what_?” Cold water is pouring over his head and Dan fights to keep above it all. Phil almost hates to put him through this, but he’s started now, and he can only stop once the flame has burnt its way out - run out of fuel.

Phil tries a different approach. Brutally, with little patience, “Who were you with today? Who have you been seeing recently?”

From a blank stare, Dan’s face contorts into one of wide eyes and parted lips. His fists clench. “What about it?”

He won’t say it. Phil doesn’t intend to, either. This whole argument will rock over them without the fire lighter ever being acknowledged.

They stare at each other for a long moment. Phil studies Dan’s face for a signal of anything, and finds nothing.

His voice is almost a whine. It breaks as he says, “Why didn’t you _tell me?_ ”

“It never came up?” Dan tries, floundering for an answer. “Phil, I don’t know. There’s no reason, it’s just an action I took without any thought. It was never made with malicious intent, I promise.”

Phil shakes his head. “Everyone else seems to know. It’s clearly not a secret. Do you not trust me?”

Dan stays quiet, eyes beseeching Phil to _please do not do this_.

“ _Dan_ ,” Phil sighs, the word shaking, lamenting, and pinning his feet to the floor and his world upside down. “You told me you trust me with your whole heart,” he says, finding Dan’s eyes. He says it quietly, a rueful memory he is hauling to the surface rather than a direct bullet.

Dan’s expression strains, bends, and falls with the weight of his anguish. “I wasn’t lying.”

Phil’s finger picks at a spot of loose skin on his thumb. “I can’t see how it’s true.”

“Please, don’t do this.”

“I don’t know what ‘this’ is, but I’m not doing it.” His stubbornness will protect him where his hope couldn’t.

“You’re making this a bigger deal than it is. This reflects nothing about you, Phil. This is just me being forgetful.” Dan finishes disheartened. Fog fills Phil’s lungs and he can’t see the end of this anymore.

“Everyone else knows,” Phil croaks. He doesn’t know how to feel - wants to believe Dan but can’t make himself see the sense of it, wants it to mean nothing but wants to expel the sourness of his broken heart from his body. For the life of him, he can’t let go of this.

“And?”

“And I deserved to know!” Phil exclaims. “I can’t see why you would choose not to tell me! I wouldn’t be any different from anyone else! I would be _happy_ for you!”

“Actually,” Dan says. He grits his teeth. “I owe you nothing. You want an answer, and I don’t owe you that either, but I would give you one, if I could. But I can’t. There was no conscious decision, no conspiracy, no anything you seem to have decided there was. In the nicest way possible, this is nothing about you. We are still the same as we ever were.”

 _I owe you nothing_. Of course, of course, of course.

Phil wipes at the tops of his cheeks. Dan watches him do so, hopelessly, and says, “I don’t understand why you’re so torn up about this.” It’s unclear whether he’s angry or in mourning.

Resolute, Phil shakes his head.

“Phil, you could _talk_ to me.”

“I don’t owe you anything,” Phil spits Dan’s words back at him - Dan flinches - and feels awful for doing so. “I don’t have to talk, or explain why I’m going to leave now.”

“We’re still the same people, Phil. We’re still us. _Us_ , together.” Dan gestures between the two of them, but the movement just sends a coil of pain through Phil.

“Not if you keep things from me.”

“But it’s such a trivial thing.”

“Then why was it so difficult to tell me?”

(Phil could ask himself the same question. The _us_ Dan speaks of never existed, by Phil’s standards. Phil’s magic is a clear deceit. More secrets lie between them than he ever realised, and he’s just discovering how difficult it is to navigate a forest of towering unknowns to find each other.)

“I told you, there was no fucking _decision_ not to tell you! It just never occurred to me.”

“Message received and understood,” Phil replies, cruel and sharp, and he heads for the door.

“I don’t want you to leave,” Dan orders him. He steps in front of Phil.

Phil raises his eyes the centimetre required to meet Dan’s gaze. Their shoulders are bare inches apart. “You don’t have a choice.”

The walk from the lounge door to the street, and then back home, is nothing but blank. Phil forces his feet into a chase after each other, rattling reasons and laments around in his head. The sky is a sterile, stinging slate of black.

Being with Dan made him feel confident, happy, centreless. Now, all that space makes him feel empty, empty, empty.

-

Phil hardly sleeps, and the next day he feels awful. Hollow, but painfully heavy; harsh and hard, but weak and soft, as if tree sap will start gushing out of his mouth. Erratic and short tempered, he spends the day sulking in front of his computer.

Phil doesn’t use magic on a person’s brain, whether that be his brain or someone else’s, by principle. He doesn’t mangle feelings or mute outrage or mould intentions. Not only is he dangerously incapable, but he doesn’t _want_ to. Sometimes, being able to fly a dirty spoon over to the sink feels foreign enough. And there are the risks, risks anti-magics never hesitate to bash around sorcerers’ heads.

Thus, he is left unaided as he attempts to work on _Jelly Hearts_. Once it’s been two hours and only three hundred words find their way onto the document, he gives up.

Dan hasn’t texted or called. It could be worse, Phil decides: he could be texting Phil to say he never wants to see him again.

Phil can’t stop worrying his lip. His thoughts bounce around the room. He can’t stop seeing Dan’s face when he let his missiles loose: gaunt, coiled tight - a tight wound - mouth open like he was waiting for something to fill the gap. He can’t stop tripping and hurting and attacking. Once he’s tried for hours to stop thinking about it, he gives up.

Phil pushes himself away from his desk, rumples Minton’s fur, and goes to the kitchen.

-

Mist crumples around the seams of the street, but a flush of rose reposes on the very edges of the sky. Only some houses have their windows alight. Residual warmth rests on the top of Phil’s hands, battered about by his short breaths. The conclusion is clear. It is not quite nighttime, yet.

Two clicks sound from the door, so Phil turns his back on the street.

Facing Dan is like facing the situation as a whole. He looks quaint and young with his sagging, woollen jumper and curling hair; it makes Phil wish for the before. For this is the after: Dan, eking out his youth, his gentleness still not time-worn, but smooth and rounded - except for the scar across his face, the ridge of a frown that light falls off. Phil flounders for a reaction to focus on (anger, regret, surrender) as the scene looms over him, backed by flat shadow and undefined endings.

The moment is like so: energy pours out of it, silence floods into it. A wasteland, roaring for life again.

He gives in and obeys its longing. Words, throbbing and thrumming, trickling through a sluice. “I’m sorry. I-I’ve come to say sorry. I mean, I’m sorry, and also I’ve come to say sorry. In a bit more detail, I mean. If I can.”

Dan stares at him for a heartbeat. Phil stares back, throwing the trapdoors of his chest wide.

Finally, “I didn’t have to open the door to you,” he states, his feet fidgeting. He means it to be harsh, maybe, but it sounds like a reminder, a _this is what you almost lost, but I will bring it back to you._ Neither of them know which it should be, Phil decides.

“But you didn’t,” Phil offers, smiling weakly. Then, to stop it sounding like a boasting retort, he adds, “thank you.”

Dan straightens his back and sighs. “Come in.”

“Thank you.”

Dan stands halfway down the hall. Phil toes his shoes off, keeping a firm hold of the box in his hands. Dan watches him and says nothing. “I, er, brought you something,” Phil says, struggling to lift the box higher. If he were to laugh, it would be awkward, inconsequential, so he doesn’t.

“What is it?”

Phil strokes his thumbs over the foil top. “A surprise. Can we, um, go to your kitchen, please?”

Dan takes a step forward, and he looks like he wants to smile. He narrows his eyes, not unkindly, and fishes for an answer, “so it’s food, then?”

Phil grins, inclining his head, and doesn’t give in. “Kitchen.”

Rolling his eyes, Dan turns on his heel and says, “ _fine._ ”

Dan speaks almost like it hasn’t happened - and part of Phil aches, because he understands, and the matching frequencies make him tremble and shiver. He doesn’t hate Dan. He hates the situation they’ve fallen into. He wishes it were over. That’s why he’s here - and, hopefully, that’s why Dan let him in. Hope is a viscous, vicious thing. But his magic is bubbling to the surface. But Dan opened the door. But Phil feels more alive than he has in a while. The recovery after a disaster feels better than constant happiness, he decides. Hope simmers and deceives, but when it goes off, it _goes off_.

The kitchen is as Phil remembers it, but tidier. The piles of unwashed cutlery have vanished; the scent of disinfectant ebbs from the crooked edges. On one wall, underneath the high window, is the cooker, and beside it is the back door. Cupboards and drawers fill the longest wall, topped by a work surface. Opposite them, under a clock with a shiny, modern face, is a table for two.

“So?” Dan prompts. He leans against a cupboard. One of his arms slings across his chest to hold the other by its elbow.

“I made you a lasagna,” Phil explains, unfolding the foil from around the edges and removing it. It glistens where he discards it on the table.

“A _lasagna_ ,” Dan repeats, patronising. He feigns intrigue as he walks over and stands over the glass dish, but Phil knows he’s only half-joking. Dan trails a finger over the glass lip. Turning to Phil, he asks, “Why?”

“Because,” Phil begins, “it represents apology in some cultures.”

Dan cocks his eyebrow. “And what cultures would those be, Phil?” he teases.

“Very remote, very dead ones.”

A smile edges onto Dan’s face this time, smudging his lips. “I see. An apology lasagna.”

“The tomato means ‘you didn’t deserve it’, the cheese means ‘it was my fault and I regret everything’, and the pasta means ‘I’m a fucking idiot’.”

Dan snorts, and raises a hand to cover his mouth. “And the seasoning?”

Phil thinks a moment. “‘What they said’.”

Dan bites into his grin and nods sagely.

“Which, overall, means ‘sorry twice over, please forgive me’,” Phil continues, hinting as unsubtly as he can, and watches Dan switch between watching him and the pasta.

“Well, I can’t fucking refuse, can I?” Dan catches Phil by the elbow and tugs him into a tight embrace. Phil holds him and lets the anxiety in him deflate, lets the tears manifest into tiny beads of water before he blinks them away.

“I’m sorry,” he tells Dan. It feels too easy, in a way, but what seemed like an apocalypse was just a thunderstorm with an ending. Enveloped by him, Phil has no space left to worry over it - he is too near him.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I should have.”

“No.” Phil shakes his head. “You were right, you don’t owe me anything.”

“I do. I do owe you. More than I can say.”

“The dramatic writer’s back,” Phil goads. He pulls back a little, “are you crying?”

“No, you just stink of onion.”

“Oh.” Phil laughs.

“To clarify,” Dan says, “I won’t always accept pasta in return for my forgiveness.”

Phil tightens his grip. “I know. Just this once.”

Dan agrees, “just this once.”

-

At the end of their meal, Dan picks up the tin foil, and begins folding parts and flattening others.

“What are you doing?” Phil asks. Dan says nothing, just hums and raises his eyebrows.

“Dan.”

“Phil,” Dan replies, and places his creation on his head.

“What are you doing?”

“It’s a conspiracy nut hat, obviously. So the _government_ can’t read my _thoughts_ ,” he says, explaining it as if it is obvious.

“I really think that’s the least of your problems,” Phil states, staring at Dan’s head and trying not to laugh.

When Dan moves his head, the hat goes askew, and so he lets it fall off and onto the table. “I was obviously joking.”

Eyes wide, Phil nods, “yeah, obviously,” and ducks when Dan throws the foil his way. He uses magic to ensure Dan misses. Dan doesn’t notice.

-

“We will get that collaboration done one day,” Dan tells him. He’s lounging on the sofa, legs kicked up next to Phil’s on the coffee table, looking thoughtful and distant and palpably loyal. It’s not a promise, but a prophecy - his eyes tell Phil as such.

Phil’s voice is a sponge in his throat. “‘Collaboration’?” he repeats, finishing a pattern on his thigh and looking up with a sly smile, “who are you?”

“A guy who’s trying to do his best, fuck you.”

Sitting with the lights off is becoming a tradition. Phil cannot ignore the softness it brings to the space, despite the way his eyes strain and how he trips in the darkness. A slope of light from the window reflects off the corner of the mirror. Otherwise, the room is a tunnel of black; they are eternal, blissfully naive.

“I think, in this case,” Phil says, “it’s the thought that counts.”

“Are you implying we won’t do it?”

“It’ll take a miracle to get us to actually sit down together and write for any length of time. Dan,” he tacks on the end, like it makes the statement more real.

“I’ll do whatever it takes,” Dan declares, pushing the hair out of his eyes and letting his cheek rest against his palm.

“What’s your plan of action?”

“If we live together in isolation, we’ll have no choice but to write.”

Phil’s head lolls to one side. “Torture.”

“Exploiting our survival instincts.”

“I’ve seen how you cook, Dan,” Phil comments, teasing, lifting one leg unnecessarily high and crossing it over the other, “you don’t have a survival instinct.”

“You just have no appreciation for ambition. A true Philistine.”

“ _Phil_ istine.” Phil laughs, and bites into his hand. Dan glares at him before gazing forwards once more.

“It would be a nice house,” he muses. “A cottage. In the forest, and there’d be a stream at the bottom of the garden.”

Phil closes his eyes. His head leans on Dan’s shoulder; he can feel the jagged movement of Dan’s jaw. He allows himself a smile. “It sounds wonderful. If we enjoyed living there, what would our incentive be?”

“If we hated it too much, we’d just run away. We have to stay long enough to produce our one hundred and something thousand words,” he reasons. “It would be real old-fashioned, though. Think _Hound of the Baskervilles_ , with more Microsoft.”

“Doing that. Tell me why I’m doing that.”

“There’d be no heating. We’d need the body heat just to survive the night.”

“And the body heat would come from writing?” Phil asks, glancing up as his head shakes with the decline of Dan’s nod. “A foolproof plan.”

“I thought so. We will cultivate our own stardom.”

“Disgusting,” Phil says, because it isn’t. “I’m not being Watson.”

“I never said you would be.”

“It was implied.”

“How?”

“I -” Phil pauses. “I don’t know. But it was.”

“Foolproof.”

“No less than the rest of this,” Phil points out.

“Bullshit. My plan is perfect. Our lives will culminate in this cottage. The birds will sing our names.”

Phil snorts. The _pretentious writer_ snark is implied. “How will we afford this cottage of productivity, then?”

“Sell our bodies.” With Phil jabbing him in the side, he finishes, “to _science_.”

“Not the most attractive of options.”

Dan grunts in agreement. “Alternatively, we train Minton to do a few tricks.”

“I prefer that one,” Phil admits.

“We could use him to intimidate people into giving us money.”

“He could be the Hound of the Baskervilles.”

Dan laughs - like he’s been waiting to do so. A sound that heads straight for the corners and the ceiling and the taut strings of Phil’s heart.

“No, listen,” Phil insists, with a laugh he can’t quite swallow, “it could be a great tourist destination. We’d act Victorian, and Minton would scare the shit out of everyone. Like the London Dungeons, but with more dogs and less history.”

Dan laughs again, a hand pressed to his stomach. “Fuck, don’t make me laugh. I’ve too full a stomach to laugh.”

“Occupational hazard,” Phil says. He watches as Dan momentarily touches his thigh with his free hand, his wrist twisting to accommodate the movement. An affectionate gesture with an unknown meaning.

They find the silence that has been waiting patiently for them. The sky spins out from them behind the panes of the windows, revealed by a curtain not perfectly shut. No stars anchor the distance. This is not a disappointing fact. Engines hum in their trundling, as if movement is a comfortable puzzle. Asynchronous and transient, the outside world is not a sound, or a sight, but a proposal: not an existence that can be taken in one go, but experiences trailed lazily over each other, one tried and tasted before moving on to the next. The odour of tangy salt followed by the spindrift lining your cheek.

Dan’s hand does not return to Phil’s leg. This is maybe a disappointing fact.

Phil cannot admit it out loud. All of it: the silken wash of magic in his blood, the clumsy knot of love in his heart. This is a disappointing fact. Perennial silence lives on in the bumps of his tongue.

“I always forget how we met,” Dan says. “Like, I don’t _forget_. If you asked, I’d know. I do know. But when I see you, or think of you, or whatever, the experience never comes along with.”

“It feels like it was so long ago,” Phil supposes. “It’s quite a surreal tale.”

“Perfect for you,” Dan replies automatically. Next, his more developed thought, “I guess it’s not something you tend to want to remember.”

“You got me hit in the arm with a book of dark magic,” Phil says, incredulous in the face of Dan’s understatement.

“You say that like I planned it,” Dan objects.

“Maybe you orchestrated the whole thing. _Maybe_ , you liked me so much, you needed a way to keep me close.”

“Are you suggesting I wanted you injured so I could stay with you forever?”

“Not suggesting. That’s exactly what happened. Injured, or _worse_.” Comically, Phil widens his eyes.

Folding his hands behind his head, Dan settles back into his seat. “Browning would be proud.”

“Which one?”

“Both,” Dan answers. His eyes are shut. Phil feels almost guilty looking.

“At once? Impressive.”

Dan’s teeth show between his lips. He settles into his next sentence, like he’s already tried it on for size and decided he’s in love with the way it feels. “We will cultivate our own stardom.”

-

Phil doesn’t go to Gwen’s place often, but when he does, the distance only makes it more special. It preserves the oddities and the novelty. The burning candles and mismatched cushions are still endearing and homey; the lingering scent of spices and coffee is still comfortably alien; the spacious, airy character of the rooms still cause his lungs to balloon and his heart to settle. Gwen’s apartment exists when Phil isn’t there - items are moved, cupboards are restocked - and, hence, it doesn’t carry a hint of Phil. In a world where he frequents the same destinations over and over, and thus leaves visible fingerprints and lasting impressions, it is good to have a place that he knows, but doesn’t know him in return. Not enough to reflect him and his habits back at himself.

They sit in her lounge, her on one half of a sofa with a suede-type texture, him slouched over an armchair, an oriental-type rug at his feet. When he first visited, Phil didn’t know how to interpret the conglomerate of furnishings; while he saw it as random and cosy, Gwen had called the style ‘modern vintage’. Phil told her that if she kept using juxtapositions like that, she could rival even Eliot himself. In reply, Gwen offered him a milkshake. Now, she twists a hunk of hair into whorling knots while she chats about recent movies she’s seen and her quest for a jacket that isn’t made out of _that gross, shiny material, you know the one I mean_. Phil listens, gaze switching from her gentle, glowing face to the canvas print hooked on the wall behind her. From the kitchen wafts the suggestion of sweetness. Phil hasn’t asked what Gwen’s baking.

“Hey,” she says - not to revive his interest, or to chide him, but to anchor them both to a new point in the conversation, in the way she so often does. She stretches a leg out to poke him with her toes. Her slipper socks tickle the inch of bare skin between his jeans and his sock. “Have you learnt anything new, recently?”

By _anything new_ , she means spells. Phil knows this and says, “Turtles can breath through their butts.” He arches his back to reach an itch. Gwen pulls a face at him. Phil pulls one back. The hostility ends, Gwen smiling contently and curling into the sofa. “I haven’t practiced it much,” he tells her. The magic is already brimming over his bones. Well-versed in the transformation though he is, the change never goes unnoticed: an arid desert flooding with sparkling water, light surging into a vertiginous cave. It’s not that Phil doesn’t feel alive when his magic is buried and waiting. He just feels _more_ alive like this, one hundred and ten percent, the limit of possibility lifted higher.

“Breathing through your butt?” Gwen teases, kindly.

Phil lowers his head, acknowledging a retort well-deserved. “It could go wrong.” He means the spell.

“See this as another practice,” she encourages. She trusts him, her eyes are telling him. She knows he believes it could be imperfect, and has put some leeway each side of her expectations to deal with this. But her belief in him, in contrast, is unwavering as her patient gaze. Some days, this is all he needs. Today is one of those days.

The hunched ceiling of Gwen’s living room fills with smoke.

Not smoke, but clouds.

The change is sudden but undetectable, so it feels like it was always this way. Tinged pink and with the texture of cotton rather than steam, the flurry makes the ceiling feel higher; the beams are invisible beyond them, and the clouds seem to be infinite. Like Renaissance paintings, they are not the real thing, but the ideal thing: lush and bold and ethereal.

Once the clouds have ordered themselves, ascertaining their existence, they burst into a hundred thousand snowflakes. Fluttering, they start to cascade through the fabricated metres of open air, and the sound is almost silent, whispering, magical, magical.

As they swoop closer, it becomes clear that the snowflakes are not snowflakes, but petals, pink as candyfloss. They grow into their role in front of Phil’s eyes. It’s impossible to tell if they were always petals, or if their nature was swapped like the smoke’s had been.

Gwen’s gasp snags in her throat. Her eyes are wide as saucers, bright as lanterns. Her apartment may not reflect his personality back at him, but in this moment, with his newly-unearthed trick unfolding before him, he knows that she does. Her wonder is his wonder. ( _Unearthed_ is better than _learnt_ , or _discovered_ , he finds. It is his action and his state of being. It is him, past and present and future. With each new spell he performs, it’s not a case of trying or exploring, but of rediscovering. Déjà vu. The potential to do it fits him easily, like it’s always been there, simmering, waiting.)

Phil catches one on the tip of his finger. He pops it on his tongue; it melts into sugar and trickles down his throat. Gwen does the same but with two, and sucks on her finger, eyes displaying easy concentration. Phil’s insides feel clean. Not empty, but glistening with the residue of magic.

“Done,” Phil announces, and the shower of petals vanishes. The magic recedes slowly, viscous and reluctant. He doesn’t feel empty without it, not quite. Just like some part of him is locked away.

“Impressive,” Gwen says, because she means it. “I have a magic trick, too.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. They’re called muffins.”

“Goddamn,” Phil says, as Gwen stands and passes the boundary between the living room and the kitchen. Gwen’s apartment is a group of rooms linked together by wooden-framed doors; one can make their way round most of the floor without using a single corridor. In a deep, booming voice, he continues, “Only the most powerful of magicians can conjure such a beast.”

“Just because you can’t bake!” Gwen calls from the kitchen. If he looks, Phil can just see her through the open door - bent over the oven, pushing her hair behind her ears and checking the cakes are cooked.

“That’s not true,” Phil rebukes, “but don’t be offended that I’m staying here and not coming to help.”

There’s the rattle of a cutlery drawer opening. The scrape of a baking tray dragged out of the oven. “That would be hypocritical of me, as I was the one who cursed you to stay glued to that seat.”

“Watch what you say, or you’ll end up with the press at your door asking about your preferred method of witchcraft,” Phil warns her. He says it mostly in jest, but they both know that similar scandals have, and will, happen.

The muffins have made it onto a plate on the kitchen table unharmed. That, Phil thinks to himself, is where his skillset falls short. At least half a muffin would be on the floor, or stuck to the tray, by now. Gwen uses a butterknife to paste icing onto them, “Being the cause of a scandal sounds like fun,” she muses, using the blade to pull the icing into a peak.

“You’d bring my career down with you,” Phil points out, “and you’d end up on the front cover of _The Sauceror_.”

“That is on my bucket list.”

“It’s not on mine.”

“Shame.” Arranging the muffins in a circle on a plate, Gwen brings them through and stands beside him. “Want one?”

“Of course.” Phil takes one. “Thank you.”

“We each have our magic tricks,” she replies, in an enigmatic way he knows is a joke.

Biting into the cake, Phil smiles, even though the comment has injected a vial of dread into him. Gwen is not one to ignore the elephant in the room; she does not leave things undone, but attends to them until they are complete, or solved, or finished. To abandon them, in her books, would be an act of dishonour. That is why she has her job, and why she is so good at it - normally, Phil is grateful for her perseverance and shrewdness. Now, however, with the conversation on the topic that it is, Phil feels he knows what is coming. That doesn’t stop him trying to steer away from that fate though, as he utters a delighted noise and asks, “What flavour?”

“Coffee and honey. How’s Dan?”

Gwen was never one to beat around the bush, either.

Phil closes his eyes and sighs, even though he predicted this. “You have his number, don’t you? Ask him yourself,” he quips, feebly.

“You know what I mean.”

Phil does, indeed, know what she means. “The muffins are nice,” he comments - again, feebly. Gwen’s stare is watchful. Phil can’t lie to her, so he doesn’t try.

“I know,” she says curtly. “Have you talked to him yet?”

“What is this? Do you all have some mission involving me and him? Will you get some gratification from me ‘talking’ to him?”

When she speaks again, the edge to her voice has diffused away into gentle analysis. “Phil, you know that isn’t what this is about.”

No. This is about Phil wanting Dan to know the real him: the one who donates to charities for homeless sorcerers, who uses healing charms and balms to heal his friends when they’re sick, who can conflate beauty and impossibility on the tip of his finger, if his concentration is in the right place. (Maybe, he wants Dan to know the part of him who pines for sarcastic, overthinking authors, but that conclusion is undecided.) This is about Phil knowing exactly what he wants, but not being able to say it. Finding the courage to tell Dan is like finding the courage to address Parliament. These parts of him are rust. Just because he’s covered them over with coats of paint, doesn’t mean they’re not still there. If he tells Dan, Dan will know he’s lied. Dan will know he has only befriended a fraction of him, only knows a fraction of him. What Phil doesn’t know is if Dan will be willing to stay around long enough to learn the rest of him. ( _Unearthed_.)

He hasn’t always been caught in this awful purgatory. He hasn’t always had these feelings towards Dan and towards himself - feelings that bubble and boil, that sing the fragile supplications of his heart. But - much like the smoke, and the clouds, and the petals - it feels like he has never been anything else.

Phil has always had magic.

He reels himself back in. His emotions are gulping for air, for his voice to break, for his resolve to melt, but he ignores it. “No, I haven’t talked to him.”

“I’m guessing you don’t have any plans to,” she says. Again, not reproachful or disdainful, just observant.

“Honestly, the whole Kate thing put me off. I’m taking it as an omen.”

“You’re a writer, not a soothsayer.”

“Who says I can’t be both?”

Gwen sighs - not at him, but at the entire situation. The room feels smaller when possibilities are weighing in from all sides. She pats the space on the chair beside her, deciding close proximity might help her in her effort to get past his emotional barriers. She isn’t wrong. He doesn’t want her to win, but he knows he can’t resist her knowing gaze, so he pushes himself up, walks the three steps it takes to reach her, and falls down beside her. Immediately, she curls up beside him, head on his shoulder, hair tickling his cheek. “You have to talk to him.”

“And tell him what? My dirty secret, or my dirty secret?”

“Phil.”

“You know that’s how it is,” he says, sulking, sullen.

“They’re not _dirty_.”

“But they are. Side effect of being magic and being gay: at least one person thinks you’re disgusting.”

“Doesn’t mean everyone thinks that.” Somewhere in the conversation, their voices became quieter. Evening sinks down around them. They sit in a low, bronze light.

“No,” he concedes. In the time Phil has known him, Dan has never said anything outrageous or even slightly offensive about magic - except for the time on the panel, but Phil has mostly come to agreement with Gwen that the slight was at Tolkien, not sorcerers. Somehow, Dan is not his father. But there lies the problem: his father. His father, who writes for a satirical paper, whose pride and joy is his column on the invasion of trolls on the everyday world. As much as it folds him inside out to think it, Phil can’t trust him. Opinions learnt from childhood are fickle, unpredictable things. He simply can’t gauge how Dan will react to him: Phil the sorcerer, Phil the hypocrite, Phil the liar. “But some do, and it hurts more when it’s someone I care about.”

“Side effect of being human,” Gwen says it like an apology, and stills his hand under hers, stopping him from worrying at the loose skin around his nails. “You tell him however much you need to tell him.”

“How?”

“You invite him over, sit him down, open your mouth, and say, ‘Dan, I need to tell you a few things’.” The response is immature and puerile, but it lightens the mood - an effect he knows she desired. “Optional step would be to tie him down.”

“To stop him running away, or killing me?”

She considers. “Both.”

Barking a laugh, he says, “great,” even as nerves swing his heart off the edge of a precipice.

Pressing closer to him, she lies an arm across his chest; his heart beats, palpably, almost audibly, against her arm. A bird, caught and begging for escape. “I know I’ve said this before, but you’re going to have to tell him.” Gwen knows she’s repeating herself but she says it anyway, because she knows that, in order to truly get past his defences, she has to approach from different angles. Her voice is only a suggestion, warm and rich, the embodiment of a fingertip search, pushing only as much as he lets her.

He lets her.

His defences are habitual, but the need for a listener is visceral. He lets her prise him open and he lets her cradle his broken parts - his worries, his problems - in the palms of her voice.

It is hard to imagine, almost, how the Gwen who quips and teases is the same Gwen who cares without pitying him, who navigates people so carefully to avoid hitting a wound. But the intelligence she uses for her witticisms is the same as the wisdom she uses to comfort him. Her commitment to finding a solution is the same as her commitment to guiding him through this, ensuring he isn’t alone or abandoned. In reality, Gwen has hardly changed over the last fifteen minutes.

“But what if it goes wrong?”

“It won’t go wrong. Dan cares about you. That comes first.”

Phil feels his body go as heavy as his voice. “But what if it doesn’t?” Gwen can do a lot, but she can’t predict the future, nor can she promise it.

“Then he’ll become another anonymous dick who hates you for no reason. He can’t be vocal about it, it will cause a PR nightmare.”

Imagining Dan as a stranger is almost impossible. To know his existence, but not know him. That is a predicament Phil has not yet found himself in. There is only this: the moment before knowing Dan, and the moment after. Phil was never the smoke, or the snowflakes. He has only ever been this, him and Dan, Dan and him, _us_. And when he wasn’t, he was just Phil, not Phil and then Dan.

 _Side effect of being human_.

“But I don’t want to _lose_ him.” He doesn’t mean for it to come out like that, like a wail and a whimper and a pointless objection. The word _lose_ snaps between his teeth and dusts the dip of his collarbone, the curve of his chest, and the tumid shape of his heart.

“Oh, Phil, I know. But if you carry on like this, you’ll lose yourself.”

It hasn’t felt like Phil is losing himself. If anything, he feels more conscious of himself, the weight of his decisions tying his body and mind together. It’s been like he’s working towards something, where the destination isn’t something he’s desperate to reach. It never seemed possible that things could be lost along the way.

But Gwen doesn’t lie.

_Dan cares about you. That comes first. It won’t go wrong. You’ll lose yourself._

Phil doesn’t say anything. Gwen lets him.

“You have to put yourself first.”

This doesn’t feel like putting himself first. This feels like putting himself on the front line.

“I don’t know,” Phil answers an unasked question. The question as a whole, he supposes. Gwen has pointed his destination out to him, sitting blurry and hazy on the horizon; it is just a case of when he chooses to arrive at it. “I don’t know.”

-

Dan breaks up with Kate.

There’s no great change. One day, he’s dating her, and the next, he’s not. Both days are identical, mostly.

“I’m sorry,” Phil tells him, and he is. He shouldn’t feel any pleasure from this new knowledge, and he doesn’t. Dan hasn’t confessed his love to _him_ , so nothing alters his mood on that front.

“It just wasn’t working,” Dan says, answering a question Phil hasn’t asked. “She told me that Kanye’s an arrogant prick, and I couldn’t take it anymore.” He shrugs, smiling like he’s the butt of the joke. It means that the real reason is something Dan either doesn’t want to talk about, or doesn’t deem worthy or interesting enough to talk about, so Phil happily leaves it alone. He accepts that he isn’t the cause, because he is so rarely the cause for things.

“Would you like to come round,” he says instead, “and eat ice cream and watch shit but great panel shows with me?”

“That sounds fucking marvellous,” Dan tells him.

“I have Ben and Jerry’s,” Phil says. A disjointed sentence, but somehow it fits.

Dan gives an appreciative nod, then pauses, pulls a contemplative face. “Are people going to judge us for this?”

“They can’t if they don’t know about it,” Phil points out, elbows bent, hands raised.

“Well I’m not gonna fucking tell them,” Dan remarks. “Are _you_ gonna tell them? I’m not gonna.”

“I’m not gonna tell them,” Phil replies, grinning.

“We’re not gonna tell them.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

There is only this: him and Dan, Dan and him. The moment after knowing Dan. _Us_.

_That comes first._

-

Mist twists around on the ground, splaying apart before coming back together as Phil walks through it. Cold tingles in the air, but there’s green on the trees. The frost twinkles, basking in the tendrils of morning sunlight. Minton buries his nose in the long grass that lines the pavement, and emerges with his face shining with jewels of water. Phil laughs fondly at him, and turns his face to the sun’s warmth while he makes his way towards Dan’s house.

“Morning!” he greets, cheerful in the face of Dan’s disgruntlement. “I need to walk Minton, and I thought you’d want to experience the first glimpses of spring with me.”

Dan smiles appropriately at his sarcasm, then says, “Phil, it’s fucking _eight_ in the morning.” He rubs his eyes, the cuff of his pyjama sleeve falling down to his elbow, but he’s been awake for longer than a few minutes: his hair is smoothed down, and there’s socks on his feet. The red of sleep has faded from his eyes. Minton snuffles around his ankles, and his smile returns.

“And you’re awake,” Phil points out.

“Maybe I was asleep until you knocked on my door.”

“You’re still awake now,” Phil argues, because he can’t _prove_ that Dan’s right or wrong, so there’s no point trying.

“Begrudgingly,” Dan states.

Panting, Minton sits at his feet, and he leans down to rub his ears.

“Does that mean you’ll come?”

“I’m not even dressed yet,” Dan complains, which means _yes_.

“Which means you’re gonna get changed,” Phil interprets, slowly, and grins as Dan rolls his eyes, steps aside, and lets him inside.

“Minton’s not allowed on the sofas,” Dan tells him, dragging himself up the stairs. “As much as I love him.”

Phil calls after him, “I’ll try!” because Dan knows that’s the best he can do. “You’re a mischievous mutt,” he then says to Minton, who peers up at him, his tail repetitively hitting the side of the stairs.

Phil moves to stand in the living room. Dan’s laptop is whirring from the seat; busy notes on paper cover the table, a pen on one end of the table, its lid on the other. Phil doesn’t dare read them as he gathers them into a pile, puts the lid on the pen after adding to an empty piece of paper, _tidy house, tidy mind._

Bounding down the stairs and pulling a sweater over his head, Dan announces, “We are getting coffee on the way,” to Phil, who is sat on a sofa, restraining Minton with both hands around his neck. “I insist. If we’re going out this early, I am getting some caffeine in my system.”

“Doesn’t coffee undo all the goodness this exercise is doing?” Phil asks, standing up and winding the lead around his wrist.

“I thought we were going for the beautiful bond of companionship and the turn of the seasons.”

“That too.”

“Well, then.” Dan flings the door open and stands, grinning, beside it. “Let’s go. Coffee’s -”

“On the right, I know,” Phil finishes for him. Minton bounds outside, and his arm stretches out in his attempt to stay still. “You’d think you didn’t know me at all.”

-

Coffee clutched in their hands, they weave their way to the local park - a quilt of grass, trees, beaten tracks, and a small river estuary sewn into London’s mass of roads. A crisp smell carpets the earth. The frost has mostly melted away into puddles of glass; the trees are wisps of brown and black, light falling down between the branches and catching in their eyes. A flock of birds takes off when they pass. Other than the beating of their wings, the park waits in silence. They are the only ones there.

“Where is everyone?” Phil wonders aloud. Minton’s paws skitter across the ground; his voice skitters through the quiet air.

“Did I fail to mention that it’s really early, Phil?”

“Eight isn’t ridiculously early.”

Dan shrugs. “This park is never teeming with people, though.”

“I suppose.” Phil leans down and unclips Minton’s lead. “Where should we go?”

“To the river? We follow it round and then head back,” Dan suggests. He points, coffee in hand, to his left, where copses of trees line a distant river bank.

“Sounds good.” Phil whistles for Minton, clicking his fingers by his thigh, then - once Minton has capered up to him - sweeps an arm out. “Lead on.”

-

For a few minutes, they walk in silence: it is easier to accept the quiet than to fight it, after all, so they sip their drinks and squint into the sun. The beaten track runs close to the river, the ground caving away into water only a few footfalls from the edge of the path. Sparkling in the sunlight, the water foams and froths and rushes past, the river tumid from the recent rain. Dead leaves speed past and away, caught up in its turbulent flow.

Dan comes to a stop. Staring out at the water, hand supporting his elbow, finger and thumb pressed to his mouth. Leaving Minton scurrying in the undergrowth behind them, Phil trudges off the path to join him, wetting the bottoms of his jeans.

“Hey there, stranger,” he says, surveying the scape before him. His eyes flick to Dan and away; Dan’s do the same as he hums a hello.

“Is the caffeine paying off?”

“Definitely. I’ve never felt more buzzed.”

“I can tell.” Phil dropped his coffee cup in a bin a while ago, so stuffs his hands under his armpits. “I, on the other hand, am very cold.” He takes another step to the side, filling the space his arms had taken.

Dan says, “You should have worn more, then.”

“I’m wearing a coat,” Phil huffs.

“You call that thing a coat?” Dan eyes the garment - it is more of a jacket, to be fair, but it’s never failed to keep him warm before - and rolls his eyes.

“You told me to buy it!”

“That’s what you get for choosing a shit friend, then,” he teases.

“Oh, I don’t know, it’s not all bad,” Phil admits, and sways a bit to keep warm.

Barely, Dan smiles, shape sharp as a scythe, but doesn’t acknowledge it; he looks at Phil askance and asks, “And how would that be?”

“Your central heating is much better than mine.”

“I forgot you’re practically incompatible with temperature,” Dan remarks. “My house is older than yours, though.”

Phil thinks for a moment. “It’s to compensate for all the shit parts that come with old age.”

“Ah.” Dan’s hand drops to hold his other elbow. “That explains it.”

“Just call me Sherlock,” Phil says. Dan’s mouth opens to speak, and he cuts in, “Don’t. But I was just saying.”

“That’s my thing,” Dan mutters.

Clouds bundle around the sun, but the rest of the sky is a glaring, stinging blue. Too lively for algae but too narrow for life, the river runs with dye - light’s reflection on the surface kicking up colour too tangled to sort through. Much like the thoughts in their heads.

“What’s on your mind?” Phil asks Dan. His silence is too focused and stoic, as if he could unscrew it and noise would leak out.

“Want a list?”

“It feels,” Phil says, “as if we have all the time in the world.” It is not a direct answer, but it’s not _not_ one, either.

“It’s an illusion. Or the caffeine.”

“Surrealism never sleeps.”

“It’s my Dad’s birthday next week; I’m probably gonna have to go home for it,” Dan admits, speech settling on a sigh. “How’s your book going?” He directs his gaze at Phil.

“Okay, actually. I’m near the end,” Phil replies. “Which is the hardest part. I kind of never want to go near it.”

Dan nods in grim understanding. “You can do it.”

“I have to, deadline’s soon. Editing’s gonna be hell.”

“It always is.”

“I’ll hate myself by the end of it.”

“Probably,” Dan allows. “But your readers are there to do the loving for you.”

“Only if there’s something for them _to_ love.”

“Bullshit. You’ll do it. If you want my advice -”

“Not really,” Phil taunts.

Glaring at him, Dan continues, “Just remember there’s nothing stopping you improving a sentence you hate until you don’t hate it anymore. Nothing is perfect first time.”

“I’ll say. I’ve seen the photos, Howell. That hairstyle took some time to perfect.”

“Fuck you! Yours was just as bad!”

Phil laughs. Cold air fills the back of his throat. “Yes, but my time was bef- MINTON. MINTON, STOP.”

“Too late,” Dan notes, as a splash follows Minton’s descent into the water. “Can he swim? Should I be worried?”

“It’s not the swimming I’m worried about. He can never get out again.” Phil stares out at the water, taking a step forward as he cranes his neck. His foot rests on the beginning of the hill.

Dan holds out an arm to stop him. “I’ll go.”

“He’s not your dog, it’s fine, I can get him,” Phil objects.

“I’m much more coordinated than you. It wouldn’t do if we had two idiots in the water, would it?”

“I’ll interpret that as you looking out for me,” he says. “Go on, then. Be a hero.”

“You got any treats?”

“You haven’t even got him yet.”

“Not for me, you twit. For _Minton_.”

Phil grins. “I know. Here,” he says, and drops a handful into Dan’s outstretched hand.

“Thanks.” Starting down the slope, Dan digs his heels down in the ground for anchorage, arms out at both sides. He moves quickly and efficiently, though, and within a few seconds he is at the water’s edge. The ground drops away just at the river’s edge, but the water level is higher than usual, so bubbles gurgle at Dan’s toes. “Minton!” he calls, beckoning with the biscuits. At the sight of food, Minton barks and paddles towards him. Dan backs up the bank. Minton follows him, scrabbling at the grass with his paws. Grabbing a hold of his collar, Dan yanks him out; the gradient is steep, even at the water’s edge, so the maneuver takes an agonisingly precise amount of balance. Phil need only be tense for a moment, however, as Dan succeeds in helping Minton up and over the edge.

“Thank God,” Phil exhales.

“There you go.” Dan ruffles the shaggy fur on Minton’s head. “You _bastard_ ,” he adds, when the dog shakes himself dry and leaps up the hill.

Phil laughs.

He almost misses it: the thud of wings. A pigeon, wingspan wide, flying in front of Dan’s face as he picks his way back up. Dan’s feet slipping on the slimy grass. His arms windmilling out behind him. Body teetering backwards. “Shit, shitshitshit,” Dan exclaims. He starts to fall.

The water hisses and hungers under him. The sun blinds them. The only sounds: the water, Dan’s yell, Phil’s blood in his ears. His heart is on the floor at his feet, floundering.

Phil acts before he thinks.

It couldn’t have ended any other way. If Dan falls, he could bash his head on the bank, or the bed; the water is fatally freezing; he would most likely survive, probably, but that thought is not strong enough to fight his instinct: he can’t let him fall.

Phil’s hand snaps out in front of him. He doesn’t even have to think; the magic is there, screaming for life, begging for use. With just the slightest call for it, it’s there.

It rockets up from his feet, branches into each of his fingertips, filling his eyes with gold. His mind bursts into life, the adrenaline and panic and short-notice erupting as sparks and bullets in his skull. The words are quiet but acute, hissing out from his teeth. Within a heartbeat, it’s gone. His head falls back into silence. The power simmers away under his skin.

Dan stops in mid air, remaining dog treats levitating above his head.

The dread is already building as Phil twists his fingers. It is not a spell that has saved Dan, but Phil’s magic itself - embodied as a corporeal force holding Dan up, wind pushing him up into a stable position once more at the movement of Phil’s hand. It obeys his will.

Dan’s eyes are wide, his body still ensnared in his panic. Phil can’t stand to look at the sight any longer.

Time restarts.

(Except time never really stopped.)

Phil’s heart restarts.

(In reality, in those moments, he had never felt more alive.)

Dan’s arms fall down to his side, his chest heaving. Blinking, he looks around. Phil waits for the words to come.

They don’t. Dan starts clambering back up the bank.

“What was that?” he asks, bewildered. He does not demand - he doesn’t think it was Phil - but his face is twisted with strain.

Phil really wishes he found the courage to tell Dan before he found out for himself, but that didn’t happen. Standing parallel to Dan (the water gurgles and the light falls through onto Dan, a spotlight, a spearhead), Phil has a choice.

It is not a difficult one to make.

Up to this point, it was lying by omission. Now, it would be plain lying.

Gwen’s words come back to him: _you’ll lose yourself_.

It’s not that Phil doesn’t feel alive without his magic. But the truth is, without it, knowing himself is impossible - just as knowing a painting is impossible when part of it is covered. He uses it, and every part of him is clear, palpable, tangible. Even when he’s not using it, it’s there, tucked away in his back pocket. He knows it is there. He is one hundred percent, because he still has it within him. And when he uses it, he truly _becomes_ that one hundred percent, truly knows himself.

Dan cannot know him, one hundred percent, if he doesn’t know about that vital part of Phil - just as knowing a painting is impossible when part of it is covered.

It’s not a difficult choice to make. It’s just a difficult choice to act on.

“I -” Phil starts.

“It was magic,” Dan cuts him off. “Sorry, I’m answering my own question, it’s just. _Fuck_ .” He lifts a hand to his forehead. Phil shifts on his feet. “I was on the bank, and I was falling - properly _falling_ \- and then I wasn’t. It was so...fucking _bizarre_. Incredible.”

Phil’s hopes soar. Dan doesn’t hate magic - he sounds awe-filled, reverent. Perhaps this won’t go as badly as he thought.

“Who was it?” Dan asks him.

“What?”

“Who did it? Where are they? They must be somewhere, I need to thank them.” Dan cranes his neck, edging onto tiptoes in the long, wet grass.

“Dan,” Phil says. Simply. “There’s no one else here.” He offers a wet smile. Loose as thread.

“No, we saw a jogger earlier. This place isn’t totally abandoned. Where did they go? Did you see them?”

“ _Dan_ ,” Phil repeats. He feels like crying: his heart bows and bends, his voice choking. “There wasn’t ever anyone else.”

Dan stops searching. “What are you saying?”

Phil swallows harshly. His face crumples up, he can feel it, and he works quickly to smooth out the creases. “It was me.”

Dan looks at him.

And looks at him.

He smiles, barks a laugh. “Very funny.” He slaps Phil on the arm. “Where’d they go?”

“Dan, stop.”

Dan laughs even as his brow furrows, even as the sound gasps out disbelief rather than good humour. “W-what? You’re not a sorcerer, Phil. I’d know. You’d’ve told me.”

Dan’s trust dismantles him. His insides have fallen apart, he thinks. It means nothing that, somehow, he is still standing.

Phil shakes his head. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for joking?”

Again, Phil shakes his head. “I’m _sorry_.”

Dan says nothing.

With a stuttering breath, Phil reaches out a hand, palm down, and casts a spell, loud enough for Dan to hear. The grass shakes the frost off its back, moving of its own, impossible accord. Dejected, Phil moves his hand aside, and the frost takes off on the flight of an unfelt breeze.

All play is lost in Dan’s expression. Phil looks back to him, because there is nothing else for him to do, and all he sees is ugly shock: Dan’s mouth hanging open, Dan’s eyes wide, Dan’s feet stumbling back a step. Away, away, away. The confusion doesn’t last long, dilapidating into anger and disgust. Phil would burn the stars, he would rewind the sun, he would dismantle the moon, if it meant he never had to see that face again - both in reality and in memory.

There is no coming back from this.

“ _Dan_ ,” Phil tries. A sob and a wail and a pitiful, pitiful question. His brain can conjure up nothing else; that is all there is left. “Say something.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I have magic,” Phil says. It has never felt more true. He is falling, and all he can feel is the electric throb of a pulse in his veins.

“No, not that. I can fucking see that.” Dan kicks the grass. Phil flinches. “I don’t understand how this is how I’m finding out that you have _magic_.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Phil accuses, frowning.

“It is.”

“I don’t understand -”

“Makes two of us.”

“You were so fine with it just now,” Phil continues. “You wanted to thank them. So thank me.”

“That was before I knew it was _you_!”

In a detached part of his mind, Phil realises he is crying. His face aches like he has been crying for months.

(He longs for him, as he has for months.)

“What does that mean?”

“It was fine for the sorcerer to be just that: a sorcerer. But _you_ ...Someone close to me, someone I was supposed to _know_.”

Dan’s childhood upbringing had made an impact, after all.

“I wanted to tell you, I did. But this is so terrifying and I’m a coward and I never meant it to go like this -” Phil reaches out for him, but Dan backs away, keeps on backing away. He looks at Phil - disgusted. Phil’s sobbing and his nose is running - a mess. These are not related.

“So, what? It just never came up?” Dan spits, hands whipping out from his sides.

The trees are wisps of colour no longer, instead haunting, skeletal silhouettes. Phil is falling away into the blue waters of the sky. A lump forms in his throat, and he cannot find a way to speak efficiently, so all his emotions - regret, loss, the slight pinch of anger that Dan should hate him for this, everything else rotten - fester in his chest.

There is no coming back from this. He will never be able to wipe the gore from his insides.

Phil bites his lip and shakes his head.

“How about the first time we ever spoke? Did you decide not to tell me to make me the bad guy? So you could hate me in private?”

“No.” ( _I was so scared.)_

Ire pinches Dan’s eyebrows, face contorting into vindictive disbelief as he demands, “Were you ever going to tell me?” His voice carries it all: Phil the sorcerer, Phil the hypocrite, Phil the liar.

“I wanted to -” Phil starts, then discovers there is no _but_. He wanted to.

( _I am so scared._ )

“Stop,” Dan interrupts. He shuts his eyes and sews himself back together. “Shut up.”

Phil shuts up.

It is impossible to tell if Dan hates the magic or the lying. It doesn’t matter. Both lead to the same conclusion: Dan hates him.

There is no coming back from this.

Minton barks at a fleeing bird. Deliberating calling him over, Phil decides against it.

“You’re a hypocrite,” Dan states, pointing at him with all four fingers. It’s Phil’s turn to close his eyes, shield himself from the oncoming meteor shower: _it begins, and so this ends._ “Is that why you got so mad about Kate? Because you looked at me and all you could see was yourself?”

Kate hurt because Phil loves Dan. This hurts because Phil loves Dan. He doesn’t know why it hurts Dan: a childhood roaring to the surface, or a betrayal tearing him apart?

“You’re right,” Phil says, because he is. There is nothing he can do about it.

Dan soldiers on like Phil said nothing, “And you had the audacity to get mad at _me_ for lying?”

“Dan, _please_.” Phil reaches his arm out, reconsiders, then pulls his fingers into a tight fist.

“Did I really mean nothing to you?”

Dan is nothing in the same way outer space is, the same way a black hole is: a nothing so vast that it is something. A nothing that aches when Phil feels its outline with the pads of his fingers. An emptiness with the instinctive need to be filled.

Phil daren’t say, “ _I wish_ ,” as the gap crumbles and grows. The only other option is to pretend recovery exists in this moment: “ _Please_ , Dan, don’t.”

“You blamed _me_ for keeping secrets. And you were right, and I knew that. I hated myself for ever keeping that from you. But you - this whole time, you lied about _this_.” The last word is a knife, and Dan delivers it as such. The sound hums as it slices the air into cubes.

“It’s not the same,” Phil insists. _Petty,_ he thinks. _Coward_. It’s not the same, because Dan’s secret meant nothing, but Phil’s means everything. Is everything.

“ _How_ is it not the _same_?”

“Y-you omitted a small thing, something no one could be mad about,” Phil stutters. The anger and defense start to rise, and Phil lets them. They will be a temporary antiseptic for the pain. “People kill sorcerers.”

“And that’s my fault?”

“Obviously _not_ , and you know that’s not what I mean.”

“No. My mistake. You mean that you couldn’t fucking trust me.”

A confession, thin as ice, thrown for the wind to gorge on, “I couldn’t trust myself.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

It means more than Phil can ever go into. Beyond himself, within himself.

Teeth gritted, he plants the bomb, “We’ve both lied.”

“It’s not relevant. My lie is not relevant to this, no fucking way. The only relevant thing is that you’re a hypocrite, and we’ve covered that. They’re incomparable. It’s not like we’re together. I had no obligation to tell you about my dating life.”

_Bang._

Perhaps it’s because hearing the reminder aloud - _they’re not dating, why doesn’t he remember this! or maybe the issue is that he can never forget_ \- hurts, but Phil lashes out. “So how am I under obligation to tell you something that terrifies me? Like you said, it’s not like we’re _together_ ,” he sneers.

“We’re friends, though. Or, we were. I don’t even know you.”

“You knew everything that mattered.”

“That’s a lie.”

“Is it? How does my being a _sorcerer_ matter?” he challenges.

Dan flares; Phil burns from the heat. “It clearly matters to you.” The nausea hits Phil in a split second: the correct string plucked, the wound pricked, the bruise kicked. “Your whole heart, you said. I believed you. But that wasn’t you, and I might have gone my whole life not knowing that I only saw half of you. I know you well enough to know that everything matters to you. This _matters_ to you. It should have mattered to me. I - _I thought I knew you_.”

“You _do_.” Even as he says it, Phil knows it isn’t true. He thought it was true - in reality, though, Dan only knew the version of him Phil wanted him to know. Dan knew that version fully and wholly. But a version is not the truth.

“Now I do, yeah. Now, I know that you’re a liar and a sorcerer and a coward.”

One last plea. He has to try. If he got into this by lying, maybe he can get out of it by telling the truth. One more confession, and the bowl may brim. “I used it for you. I did it for you.”

Dan’s expression flickers between betrayal and anger. Raw. Scorched. A rut they can’t get out of; disbelief protrudes in his twisted mouth, a gnarled look. “How can you say that when all you’ve done is hurt me?”

 _I don’t know_ , he thinks. _I don’t understand it either._ All he knows is that these parts of him coincide - he loves him and he breaks him. “Because I love you, Dan, a lot - you’re my best friend, and that never stopped -”

“No. No.”

Phil closes his eyes against the solar storm reeling his way.

“Stop lying,” Dan tells him, an order cracked over the whip: despondent, surrendered.

“I mean it,” he says. “I mean it.” If he chooses to, then Dan knows. Dan knows how much he means it. Phil’s torn the truth out of his chest for him to see, if only he chooses to look (and he probably does). _My whole heart._

Dan’s fury made him seem so large, so endless. Now he’s as small as Phil feels - it’s the distance that engulfs them. “Then you’re lying to yourself.”

With balled fists, Phil swipes the tears from his face. Forces air into his lungs, pushes it out again. “I’m going to go, now.” A sliver of his heart hangs, dripping, in a branch of a nearby tree; the corpse of his shadow lies, slumped, face down, in the water. The bomb has long since detonated. All that’s left is Dan’s desiccating stare and Phil’s withering self. The worst kind of argument is one where you know they are right; you end up hating yourself, and they discover that they never want to be right again, if it means having to land with nothing to break the fall, no resistance to fight and no compromises to salvage for later. No one emerges from these completely whole.

“Fine,” Dan says.

“Fine.”

Dan leaves first, for which Phil is thankful, because his feet are tied to the spot. He doesn’t want to watch Dan walk away, but he can’t sever his eyes from the sight. Meandering over to him, Minton presses the wet of his nose to Phil’s ankle. Phil doesn’t let himself ask Dan to stay until he is too far away to hear.

Together, they weren’t who they thought they were. Hunched and acute, Dan’s outline fits differently into his vision. Phil feels different in his own skin. His lungs are lined with smoke.

“C’mon, boy, let’s leave.”

There is no coming back from this.

-

Gwen promised him that he would lose Dan, or he would lose himself.

As it turns out, he has lost both.

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey!! i hope you enjoyed this work!! if you did, why not [reblog](http://dantiloquent.tumblr.com/post/153788091631/heart-full-of-headlines) to support me? or leave a comment, letting me know your thoughts! i love seeing who's read my work!! no matter what you do, i'm incredibly thankful to you for reading this to the end. it means the world to me. and, hey, thanks.


	2. after

When Phil gets back home, he changes back into his pyjamas. He had plans for the day, probably ( _t_ _here are so many hours left)_ , but they feel so inconsequential now. Compared to the storm in his head, their structure is flimsy; it only takes a few minutes - set the kettle to boil, fill Minton’s food bowl, stack the dishwasher - for them to be lost to the hurricane. Tornado. Whatever. Point is, it’s slowly siphoning everything out of him.

He doesn’t use magic. By hand, he lines bowls up on the spokes of the dishwasher, runs a glass under the tap and fills it back up with water, and places his dirty clothes into the laundry basket. To cast a spell would seem too much like furthering the betrayal, which doesn’t make sense, because if he tells Dan he uses magic only to not use it, surely that’s a lie in itself, but things like this aren’t meant to be sensical. The mere thought of using magic makes him feel ill. The power it brings is too strong for him to handle, and the memories it would conjure are too potent.

It’s been half an hour, at most.

It isn’t that he’s never felt like this. Over the years, he’s had his fair share of crises, arguments, and self-doubts - magic related, school related, mental health related. But this feels so uncanny. Not because he has feelings for Dan. No, in many ways Dan is irrelevant, a component and a catalyst but not a defining feature. He just feels...

He’s split in two. Two warring sides of himself have collided, pushing up into mountains, and the tremors have made him restless and edgeless. Hiding his magic had never affected him so badly, in the past. There were never any consequences. People knew, or they didn’t, and Phil acted accordingly.

Genuinely, Phil doesn’t mind burying himself every once in awhile, because he can still be himself - he still is himself, his magic is only a fraction of him - at home. What does bother him, he’s discovering, is the morals of it, the ethics (such bulky words, for something so personal and small). Dan is the case where it’s gone wrong. Not because Dan is the issue, but because Phil is. Maybe. He can’t tell how guilty he should feel about this. At least, he knows one thing for certain: he should have told him.

Right and wrong aren’t concepts, but emotions roiling in his gut. There is no solution, only each situation before the next and the next.

All of this stays in the background. A barbed fence, but not the contents of his thoughts. He’s too shaken for deep thought. He’s just trying to forget, and the sense of disruption won’t leave him.

Phil scoops up his laptop from his bed and sits at the desk in the lounge. The square of white light from the window shifts from the table onto him. He can hear the gobbling sound of Minton eating in the kitchen. Waiting for the laptop to boot up, he drums his fingers on his thigh twice before standing up; in one sweep of the room, he picks up any litter and all misplaced belongings, subsequently shoving the rubbish into the bin and locating homes for the other items: a book of poems, two fine-liner pens. One of Dan’s moth eaten sweaters.

“If he wants it, he’ll have to place an ad in the paper,” Phil yells to his dog, and shoves it into the cupboard under the stairs.

Phil mutes Dan on Twitter, because it feels like the right thing to do. He doesn’t unfollow him, or the fans will know, and he can’t stand to face that. Not today, not anyday. He could ask Gwen what to do about it, how to handle the PR. Oh, God, since when was his life so manufactured? Although it’s probably his fault, for building such a public relationship when the foundations were so unstable. The tornado cleared them away in no time.

(Is his magic the tornado? Or is he the tornado?)

The word document for _Jelly Hearts_ is open, waiting. This morning, he was so ready to write. The words were popping out of his head. The excitement to get them out and onto paper was so palpable, but now it’s a distant memory. He has no idea where to turn next, every sentence is stiff and boring. Even with the deadline looming over him, he can find no incentive or motivation in him. There are worse things than missed deadlines.

Writing his novel is so boring and so pointless. He’s bursting with feeling, but not for that.

He goes to his blog, jots down a short piece of prose that reveals too much and solves too little, and hits post before he can think twice. Activity on _NINELEGGEDOCTOPI_ had been slow, recently, anyway.

Phil gives up. There is nothing else to do. Shutting the laptop with a smack, he pushes away from the desk and opts to lounge on the sofa instead. He has several episodes of a TV show to catch up on. Minton plods over and slumps onto his lap, so he can’t possibly move now.

He can’t write, and he refuses to use magic. Suddenly, he’s useless. They’re not a part of him anymore, leaving him as a shell of dried blood and frazzled wires of thought, tied up with tracksuit fabric. As if his mind was wired with a five-amp fuse, and it’s blown.

As Netflix loads, he strokes the thicker fur around Minton’s neck and tells him, “You’re getting old, aren’t you?”

Four years ago, when he finished University and moved into a cheap flat in Manchester, he treated himself by getting a dog. The landlord allowed pets - that had been a pivotal criteria for Phil, not that he’ll ever admit it. Minton wasn’t a puppy any longer, but he was juvenile and endearingly friendly, and that didn’t change over the following months and years. Phil feels a certain, warm affection for his dog, an affection reserved for Minton and Minton alone.

Minton just breathes, his chest rising and falling, his heart beating into Phil’s thigh.

“That’s not allowed,” says Phil. “We’re meant to do that together.”

-

_http://nineleggedoctupi.co.uk_

UNEXPLODED BOMB FOUND IN LONDON GARDEN.

when i planted those flowers, i did not mean for them to die. people write stories for the endings but why should everything have an epilogue? so what if i want to live for the middle, for the story arc? you arsehole. just because you make endings out of checked black and white lines. just because my flowers’ roots weren’t dug deep enough. there are brains all over my garden. my brains. the badgers came and dug up a bomb i didn’t know i planted. not their fault. (this _is_ your fault.) is it? i planted the flowers, after all. perhaps it is my fault. those flowers were a bomb. not a heart. nothing is a heart but a heart or a stable home and a smile coming from a place where there are plenty more to use. the badgers have dug me a grave, which is nice of them. where were you to help, you arsehole? do i put myself in that hole, or you? i did not think i could be emptied so quickly. easy. this, too, shall pass, but i did not want it to pass! those flowers were to bloom every spring and their roots were to never see the light of day. do i replant them? do i try a different seed? i cannot tell if it was the flowers that were bad, or their death. is death the act of exposure, or the act of leaving? are flowers secrets or good things that go bad? but, for now, you stay over there, with your endings and your severed ties, and i’ll stay over here, picking up my pieces and tearing up turf and calculating the perfect trajectories to enter eternal orbit.

-

A week or so ago, a movie night at Phil’s was planned for. Phil is certain he can still be a functioning human, so he doesn’t cancel it; the next day, the day after the incident, he starts afresh. Writing is still hard, but he perseveres at it for a while, in order to generate a basic draft; magic is still out of bounds. He struggles through the rest of the week, and makes it to the day of the arrangement. He reads a little, conjugates ten new French verbs, and at five o’clock he goes to the local shop to buy groceries and snacks. He’s halfway home when his phone buzzes; it’s Gwen, texting the group chat to check their plans are still on.

 _of course!_ Phil replies, slowing to a halt by the side of the pavement, _you can’t cancel plans with steve._

Jack sends a text soon after, _I cannot believe you’re referring to Captain America by his first name. Fame changed you_.

Phil allows himself a smile, unsubstantial but a _smile_ , nonetheless, and sets on down the road.

-

Phil knew he’d have to face the others with it eventually. Jack and PJ were friends with Dan before Phil was, and Gwen grew to care for him, as she often does with her friends; their friendship circles had coalesced. A missing piece, a subtraction, wouldn’t go unnoticed.

He didn’t want it to happen so soon, though, because he still needed some time to sort himself out. When it did happen, he wanted to be in control.

He doesn’t get his wish.

“We know about Dan,” PJ announces, eyeing him carefully from his perch on the sofa. His expression is cool and ambivalent, and the only sign he cares at all is that his hands are tied together. “And you.”

They only arrived fifteen minutes ago. Gwen had smiled widely at him and thrown her arms around his neck, while PJ showed that he was going to the kitchen by lifting a bag of crisps over his head, and Jack squeezed past, muttering something about inappropriate work relations. Phil wasn’t hurt; not only had Jack made the same joke a dozen times before, but he was also a massive hypocrite. If you weren’t his friend when you joined his crew, you became one. Gwen let go before Phil asked her to, pushing him towards the living room while shooting another dazzling smile his way. In the living room, Jack complained about the film choice and took a handful of roasted peanuts; PJ carried his bowl of crisps through into the lounge and set himself the task of attaching Phil’s laptop to the TV; Gwen greeted Minton much the same way she greeted Phil, as always.

Back in the present, Phil is pinned to a spotlight. PJ, Gwen, and Jack all have their eyes on him. Having taken over the laptop mission from PJ, Phil sinks to the floor where he stands. “Christ,” he mutters, a hand rubbing his forehead, “there’s no such thing as a build up with you, is there?” He states it - it isn’t a cutting remark. Their gazes surround him.

“It’s why his films are rubbish,” Jack replies.

“Jack!” Gwen chastises. “This isn’t a place for your comedy.”

“Made him smile, though.” He did. “That’s the only thing I’m good for.”

“I’m still hurting over here,” Phil reminds them.

PJ looks guilty, but as if he knows there isn’t anything he can do about it. “I don’t think there’s such things as softening the blow with this kind of shit.”

“You’re probably right,” he concedes, and sighs - it rattles in his chest, unable to find a comfort to sink into.

“Did you think we wouldn’t find out?” PJ asks.

“Of course not,” Phil replies. He buries his face in his hands, but his skin doesn’t burn from embarrassment; he’s simply empty, and covering his face is a way to keep that fact at bay. “You’re not omniscient beings, but you’re not stupid, either.”

“Thanks.”

“Shut up, Jack. I know you’re friends with him, too. Either he’d tell you or you’d work it out.”

“Was you telling us not an option?” Gwen picks up on his reluctant tone, and voices her thoughts, not unkindly.

Phil shrugs. “I couldn’t imagine how I’d say it. How do you say something like that?” He exhales. “My words aren’t working at the moment.”

“Well, Dan managed it,” PJ informs him. Not unkindly.

“Dan’s a writer.”

“So are you.”

“He works in surrealism, though,” Jack points out.

“If I had a penny for every time I heard that joke,” Phil says. The sadness is brimming on his skin, pooling around the breastplate of his armour. It’s uncomfortable, but it’s harmless. The situation isn’t awful. He’s surrounded by friends who only want to help, and aren’t afraid to face the truth in order to do so.

He looks round at them all. Gwen insisted on having as little light as possible; the glow of a lamp puts a loose cap on the darkness and crowns his friends with gold.

“I wasn’t joking.”

“Alright, alright,” Gwen interjects. “Let’s not argue.”

Phil pulls his knees up to his chest. His heart beats onto his thigh. He doesn’t want to be anchored to himself - he wants to be free again. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”

He is. He _is._ Recently, he’s lost track of how much of himself he’s meant to give away freely. How much is he entitled to disclose? His magic felt like the secret of something bigger. His argument with Dan doesn’t feel like his to tell, either. If anything, it’s both of theirs to bear. Or perhaps he just doesn’t want to accept responsibility.

“You didn’t have time nor opportunity,” Gwen comforts, while PJ says, “We’re not offended.”

Phil nods, slowly, letting it all wash over him; the kinship, the forgiveness, the change. By his hip, his laptop whirs into life and goes quiet. He has nothing to add, so he doesn’t try.

Jack breaks the silence, “Are you gonna tell him the rest of it, or not?” He pinches the last, uneaten half of a crisp as he throws a look round at his friends. “Well?”

Phil snaps his head up. “What rest of it? What more could there possibly be?”

“Get off the floor, Phil, and come and sit down,” Gwen says, patting the sofa beside her. She ties her hair up into a knot at the top of her neck, and her eyes look round and soulful in the low light.

“Why?” Phil asks, apprehensive, but tucks his legs under him and pushes himself up with a frown. “Do I need to be sat down for this? Should I be scared?”

“No. You just looked quite pathetic down there.”

“I see.” Phil sits down, perching on the chair, and glances round at them all. The change of perspective has brought with it a shift in mood, he thinks, but there’s no evidence to support it: just three friends, looking at him in the same way - not down, but across - a dog, and a mess of his feelings.

“Like a lost child,” Jack adds.

“You can be pathetic if you want to be.” PJ softens his gaze and crosses his ankles.

“Thanks, Peej.”

“Anytime.”

“So now the pep talk’s over,” Jack prompts, and then stops. He looks to Gwen, and then at Phil. The others don’t say anything, either.

“Christ, would you all stop staring?” Phil mutters. “I feel like I’m coming out again, and _I’m_ not even the one who’s meant to be saying anything.”

Gwen touches his shoulder and says, “Sorry.”

“This isn’t a big deal,” Jack comforts.

“It _feels_ like one.”

“Okay, I take it back. It is a big deal. You’re a big deal, because you matter, right?” Jack looks around at PJ and Gwen for support, his glasses glinting with a reflection. “We’re not here because we know you want to marry him, or something.”

“I should hope not.”

“This is about something more than that.”

“I know.”

“Jack,” PJ cuts in softly, “I think you’re stalling.”

“And I think we all know what the real issue is here.” Jack turns back to Phil. “You’re both hurt. You’re probably blaming yourself - don’t argue, I know you too well. I just want you to know that we’re not mad.”

“Now I feel like I’m having a talk from my parents,” Phil grumbles, but feels ungrateful, so he adds, “Thank you.”

“Any time, mate.”

Next, more silence - distended from pensive thought. There is something funereal about it; their heads bowed, the low light, the past a separate time and not a younger form of the present. Phil calls Minton over with a click of his tongue and tickles his ear, his collar jangling.

“I want to know what I stood up for,” Phil announces, once the stagnancy is unbearable. He locks eyes with PJ and holds him there. “Please.”

“He asked us all round, said it was quite urgent,” PJ offers.

Phil can’t quite be surprised by this statement; Dan was always a thorough, diligent thinker. He would want to find out the whole story, check he was doing the right thing, no matter how much it hurt him. “And you went?”

“I was so surprised that he actually called,” Jack inputs. “I couldn’t say no.”

Phil nods in understanding. “Then what? What did he say?” He looks at PJ, then at Jack, then at Gwen.

Gwen’s hesitation isn’t because she’s uncomfortable. She doesn’t look at PJ or Jack for help. Instead, she returns his gaze steadily and the meaning is clear. _I wish there was a way of saying without hurting you_. “He asked us if we all knew.”

Again, Phil nods. He thought as much. The sinking feeling plummets, and he stays buoyant only from their company. It doesn’t change anything, of course. He’s still just as fucked as before. Now, Dan knows it as well as he does.

_Liar, sorcerer, coward, hypocrite, betrayer._

“You don’t seem surprised,” PJ notes.

Phil shakes his head. “It was the Dan thing to do.” He sounds defeated.

“Yes,” PJ ponders, “I suppose it was.”

A thought strikes him. He feels rather panicked. “You didn’t lie for me, did you? To protect me?”

Gwen shakes her head. “God, no.”

“Thank you. I’m sorry.”

“For?”

“Putting you in that position.”

Jack raises a hand. “We’re not injured.”

Phil hums in flimsy agreement. “How did he seem?” He hates to ask, but curiosity is a frost biting at his ankles. He wasn’t ever going to be able to walk away without looking over his shoulder. “Was he mad?”

“He was very calm, actually,” recalls PJ.

Phil huffs. Of course Dan doesn’t care anymore. Of course he can cut himself off from this without wearing the scars on his face. “Did he _look_ mad when he asked you?”

“Half-mad,” Jack admits. “If by mad we mean aggressively hurt.”

Phil pulls his mouth into a fine line. “What about the other half?”

“Confused, I think,” he decides, after a moment’s thought.

“I deserve that.”

“What about you?” PJ asks. “Are you mad?”

In his lap, his fingers knot together, and now he watches them. “Kind of. Maybe. I don’t know. I’m more just...lonely. I don’t know what to do, who to blame.”

“Oh, Phil,” says Gwen.

“I know we didn’t come here to give advice, but you could wait for him,” says PJ. “It’s not like you’d have to get to know each other all over again. This is just one thing. Once he’s got used to the idea, and you’ve both had the chance to apologise, you could be friends again.”

Phil shakes his head, lips still sewn straight, and tries not to cry. “You didn’t see him when he found out. He looked like he hated every part of me.”

“He wasn’t disgusted when we saw him. His upbringing was bound to manipulate him when he was mad. It’s what he thinks after that matters, and Phil, he was many things, but disgusted at magic itself was not one of them.”

He takes a long, shaking breath. “I don’t think I could ever face him again. As long as me disgusting him is a possibility, I can’t face him. Even if he...doesn’t hate me, even if we made up again, I wouldn’t be able to live with myself for lying to him.”

“Okay,” PJ says, and leaves the matter to rest. “Let’s watch that film now.”

Dan is a meteoroid which has yanked itself out of orbit, but Phil can’t blame him, because he isn’t leaving behind a good home, he’s leaving behind a burning planet.

He doesn’t cry. He lets Gwen curl up against him, resting her head on his half-fledged heart.

-

He does cry. A couple of days later, he’s fuzzy with alcohol, with only PJ with him, the pair sitting in a local bar, and he cries.

It’s PJ’s fault.

“When was the last time you used magic?” he asks, after watching Phil kneel down to pick up a dropped napkin.

“I thought this trip was meant to cheer me up,” Phil bitterly reuses PJ’s words from earlier, pulling himself back up onto the barstool.

“It was, until it came to my attention that you may be punishing yourself.” PJ regards him unerringly.

Phil sighs. PJ was always too astute. “Not since the argument. And I’m not punishing myself. I just don’t feel like I can take it.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re only saying that out of courtesy.”

“You’re probably right,” PJ concedes. “I’m afraid you have to take it. You can’t be like this forever. You have to let it go.”

“This isn’t about Dan,” Phil blurts out, hotly. “Fuck. This is about me.”

“I’m sorry.” Apologies are PJ’s way of prying the information from him.

“I don’t know who I am anymore. Or, well, I don’t know how to use myself. Who am I, if I hide my magic from people?”

“So this _is_ about Dan.”

“No. Maybe. Yes, in a way. Using my magic isn’t just a reminder of him and what we lost. It’s just one massive lie.” Every time he considers magic, he feels nausea roil his chest. He can’t help but think of all the parts of him he keeps hidden - from the rest of the world, from his friends, from himself. How much of him does he see fit for use? Not enough to _be_ enough.

“Just because,” PJ begins after a pause, “Dan didn’t react well, doesn’t mean you were wrong to hide it from him. You couldn’t know if it was safe or not.”

“But surely he was worth that risk?” Phil cries, but bites down on his volume. “I have all this power, and yet I let it make me weaker. I’m a liability. I hate it.”

“You have to forgive yourself.”

“But I don’t know what I’m forgiving myself for!” he sobs. His cheeks burn hot with tears, his head feeling heavy with them. “Oh, God, I’m crying. I didn’t want to cry.”

“That’s my fault,” PJ says, pulling him into a loose embrace. “It doesn’t reflect on you at all.”

“Right, sure.”

“Don’t let this change you,” PJ whispers to him. “This isn’t a lesson you deserved. This is a side-effect of a corrupt society.”

“You sound like a piece of propaganda.”

“I mean it,” PJ presses.

“I don’t know what I’m doing anymore. I lie to my friends. I can’t even face that side of me, now. I can’t write. The fact I’m scared of myself makes this even worse.”

“I’m sorry. And I mean it. I really don’t think this is your doing. No one should have to answer these questions.”

“That doesn’t make them go away, though.” He’s limp in PJ’s arms.

PJ stares ahead, eyes shadowed, expression composed. “You’re right. Let’s go home.”

-

“You’re heartbroken.”

“Why did I let you in here?” Phil asks Jack, looking up from his laptop and spinning round to face him. He lifts a hand in question.

From his place on Phil’s sofa, Jack grins. “So you _are_ heartbroken.”

“I trusted you, that’s why I let you in. Now you’re ruining that trust. I don’t want to talk about it; everything’s been said. You already knew I was heartbroken.”

“I _suspected_. You never actually confirmed it,” Jack corrects. “And I’m not ruining your trust.”

“If you’re here to pitch a trip to New Zealand, don’t bother.” Kicking his feet on the carpet, Phil turns his chair back around.

“Here me out, right. You need that trip.”

“I want to go Jack, I do, but I can’t. I have a book to finish, and I’m struggling to write as it is.” He talked to Gwen about that a couple of days ago, asking if they’d need to put back the release date or anything; she told him not to fret, that he was near the end and hence far enough ahead that it didn’t matter, as long as he got his head back into it soon. Phil’s trying, he is - jotting down ideas every day, even if they don’t amount to enough.

“My point exactly. You’re lost without him.”

“Stop making me sound like a hopelessly devoted puppy. I’m not,” he reprimands. “You said yourself that it isn’t about that.”

“I did. But you’re still lost.”

“It’s been, like, two weeks.” Phil shakes his head. “Hardly long enough to judge.”

“PJ told me that you cried about it last night,” Jack carries on - the words were clearly queued up for the argument.

Exasperated, he says, “Why do I bother?”

“He also said you hadn’t used magic since.”

As if daydreaming, Phil thinks aloud, “I may as well tweet it. Make sure everyone knows.”

“What you need,” Jack announces, standing up and striding over to him, and placing his hands down on the desk, “is a summer romance in New Zealand.”

“It’s April, Jack.”

Rolling his eyes, Jack gives a falsely derisive laugh. “You are a man of many demands, aren’t you? If it were summer here, it would be winter in New Zealand. It’s April, meaning it’s…”

“Probably Autumn,” Phil supplies.

“Probably Autumn for them, okay? Which should be nice.”

“Is New Zealand nice in Autumn? And did you plan for the seasons? It doesn’t sound like it.”

“I’m trying to help you,” Jack insists.

Phil sighs, staring at his blank computer screen. “I know.”

“This could be the break you need. In both meanings of the word. You need more inspiration - this’ll give you some.”

“Hmm.”

“Plus, I could really use your Masters-level skills.”

“I’d be working in Production?” Phil raises his eyebrows in surprise.

“You’ll be working wherever you or I want. Honestly, Phil, it’s just that I had some money in the budget spare for accommodation, as a smaller crew is required than we first thought, and it’d be great to have you there.”

“Gwen knows about this?”

“She thinks it’s a great idea. Always did, but especially does now.”

“Is there some sort of ‘We need to talk about Phil’ cult I don’t know about?”

“No.”

Phil raises an eyebrow, but drops the matter. He swings in his chair. “Who’s going that I know?”

“PJ and me. The others are all great though, and excited to meet you.”

“You told them I was going.”

“No, I said you _might_ ,” Jack says, holding out his palms. “Anyway, they’re all so lovely, they’d be excited to meet anyone.”

“Okay.”

“Is that a yes?” Jack’s expression doesn’t fail to convey his excitement: the mirth undulates out of him like bursts of electricity. It’s contagious; Phil can’t help but smile as he says, with an unconvincing sigh, “Yes, whatever, it’s a yes.”

“Fuck yeah!” Jack exclaims. Minton barks in objection. They both laugh. “You’re not going to regret this. I know you’ll only know me and Peej, but meeting new people will do you good.”

“I know.” Phil squints up at Jack, before going still. He stares down at his lap. “One more thing.”

“Yeah?”

“Do I tell them about…” He gestures to himself. “Me?” (Is it him? Or is it magic? Are they separate ideas? Is he a part of magic, or is magic a part of him? He’ll never know.)

Jack’s demeanor hardens into sincerity. Like he thinks this isn’t just about the film anymore. “That’s up to you. It’s always been up to you. I can’t tell you you’re wrong if you don’t or you do.”

It’s definitely not just about the film anymore.

“It’ll be a surprise to us both, then, what I decide.”

Jack pats him on the back, comfort lingering between his shoulder blades before he takes his hand away. “You’ll make the right choice. You always do.”

Phil snorts. “Debatable.”

“Yeah, well.” Jack stops by the doorframe and turns back round, pulling a comical face. “We’re not all perfect, are we?”

“Apparently, only you are, Mr I’m Going To New Zealand.”

“You’re right about that, Mr I’m Going With Him.”

“Are the tickets booked?”

“Absolutely,” Jack yells. “We leave in three days,” and the front door slams after him.

-

The shoot is meant to last three weeks, so Phil plans to pack for two, and hopes laundry facilities will be available to him. Because of its close proximity to the film’s main location, a village dropped onto between mountains and a tremendous lake, they will be staying in a Bed and Breakfast type lodging instead of a five star hotel, so he’s optimistic. He’s less optimistic about how he much help he’ll provide; other than the basics ( _New Zealand, South Island, peak of Autumn, mountains_ ) he knows nothing about the film. Despite Phil’s best efforts, Jack seems determined to keep it that way.

“I don’t want anyone to have any expectations prior to it,” Jack tells him once more. “It’s much easier to see it than to be told it.”

“Is this some new method technique you’ve found out?” asks Phil, dryly.

“Ha ha, no. Although the actor’s intrigue should be at least half genuine, I don’t care about that. I just can’t be bothered to explain something that defies all expectations. Not all of us are as gifted with words as you are.”

“At this moment in time, anyone could be as gifted with words as I am,” Phil mourns, thinking solemnly about his struggling Word document.

“And New Zealand will change that. Stop stressing.” Jack shoves a pair of shoes into his suitcase. “You know what to pack?”

Phil nods. After some Googling, it became clear that - unlike Britain - New Zealand suffered through temperatures in the twenties even in the ‘colder’ months. Warmer clothes was still a good idea, apparently, as cold spells can come in quickly, especially at night. “Will there be somewhere to clean my clothes? I don’t think I own enough pairs of pants for three weeks.”

“Yep,” Jack confirms. He reaches over to his wardrobe, reaches up and grabs three shirts, and throws them onto a pile on the bed. “A massive fucking lake.”

“You know what I mean.”

“We will have a laundry basket, yes, and it will be washed. Don’t take advantage of it, though. This isn’t a holiday.”

“Holidays are voluntarily,” Phil adds, to prove Jack’s point.

“Stop being bitter. You can one hundred percent drop out if you want to, but you don’t.”

“I don’t,” Phil agrees. “But are _you_ sure you want me? I doubt I’ll be of use. I haven’t done any editing work since Uni.”

“I lied about that. All Post-Production will be done back in the UK. I just need your experience.”

“I’ve never been on a film set before.”

“Then I need your familiar, pretty, pretty face.”

Phil scoffs. Jack is well acquainted with using flattery for the purpose of persuasion and comfort, and Phil is well acquainted with detecting it. Jack knows this, and Phil thinks that by this point he only uses it for humour.

“I mean it. I need you. I am offering you a free trip to New Zealand -”

“Nearly free,” Phil corrects. He had insisted on paying for the plane tickets.

“Your fault,” Jack dismisses him. “A nearly free trip to New Zealand because of a marvellous set of coincidences.”

“Those being?”

“The crew is smaller than we first thought, I told you.”

“Oh, yes.”

“Point is, stop questioning it. Gift horse’s mouths and all that. Okay?”

Phil pretends to consider for a moment. “I am sufficiently inspired and convinced.”

“That’s why I’m director.”

“Directors normally tell their crew what the hell they’re doing.”

“I will! Once we’re there.”

“A belated compromise.”

“Still the director, though.”

Phil bows his head in surrender. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

-

Back at his flat, Phil begins putting the rough piles of belongings into his array of bags, and decides that packing, at least, is easy without magic. Minton weaving between his legs doesn’t help, especially since he comes up past Phil’s knees, but he’s leaving tomorrow, and companionship makes him let Minton stay.

When someone knocks on his door, Phil is nearly finished; only half reluctant, he drops the toiletry bag and goes to answer it. Minton’s trained well enough not to chew anything he shouldn’t.

“Hi.” Gwen sounds half out of breath, but she gives him her best pathological smile. “I came to help.”

“I don’t need help,” Phil says, but steps aside to let her in. As she toes her shoes off, he heads back to his bedroom, talking to her over his shoulder. “You sure this isn’t about business?”

“I’m sure.” She catches up with him.

“Are there any articles about Lester and Howell’s angsty breakup that I should be worried about?” Since he stopped talking to Dan, there’s been no media drama at all. He always felt like the whole world was watching them, but as it turns out, the reality was that the world had nothing to see. Their ties were established, but only existed through intermittent tweets and posts. Such that, even two and a bit weeks later, no one had caught wind of the events that unfolded. Phil trusted Gwen to keep it that way.

“None, save for Jack’s,” she replies, “and that’s only for his own private use.”

“I’m glad.” Phil sweeps the bed with a cursory gaze, goes to rearrange the contents of the case, and stops.

Gwen comes to stand beside him, and surveys the mess with him. “You’re sure you don’t need help?”

“I’m nearly done.”

“Good. I brought you cupcakes,” she reveals, brandishing a small plastic tub.

“ _Gwen_ ,” Phil says in surprise, smiling fondly as she pops off the lid. “I won’t have time to eat them all.”

“I know.” She grins. “Meaning I won’t feel too bad towards myself for eating more than one. When’s your flight?”

“Noon.”

“Are you going to write during the flight?”

He nods. “Probably. I managed it before.”

“Don’t overwork yourself.”

“I know.”

“There’ll be a lot of new people.” She’s watching him closely.

“Have you been talking to Jack again? I don’t need a summer romance. Or an Autumn one. Whatever.”

“I just mean that you should take advantage of a large skill pool. And I’m checking that it doesn’t daunt you.”

When Phil first met Gwen, he was ten minutes late for their meeting because he was too nervous to go in. She’d found him sat outside, stamping a foot on the ground in a fervent attempt to work out the nerves. He’s reminded of it now: her kind, watchful eyes he couldn’t hide from, the understanding in the line of her mouth, and he thinks that some things never change.

“It doesn’t,” he promises. “I’m excited for it.”

“Good.” Her relief goes only as far as is appropriate - anymore, and he’d get annoyed at her for treating him like he couldn’t look after himself. Not that she’d ever want to do that. “I -” she starts, a short stab of a vowel, then closes her mouth and hums to herself. She looks at the bed again, her hair falling against her cheek.

“Spit it out, Gwen,” he says, simply.

“Have you decided if you’re going to tell them?”

Phil’s heart clenches. “Is there some sort of secret code I’m missing out on?”

“This is an odd time for everyone,” she explains, expression worn and tired. Not with him, though. Never with him. Sometimes, Phil feels that it’s a mistake that she’s always so determined not to blame him. “We’re trying to get out of this unharmed.”

“It feels like this is all I get to talk about,” Phil admits, slinking down onto the bed. It’s not true, but if different conversations weighed different amounts, these would tip the scales over.

“We don’t have to talk about it,” she assures him, perching beside him. “You’re allowed to change the conversation right now.”

Phil could, but he says, “I’m not gonna tell them,” instead.

She nods earnestly. “Good, okay. You know that it’s okay, right? You’re under no obligation to tell them.”

“What if I should be, though?” Phil stresses, struggling to articulate his thoughts. “We don’t live in the dark ages. I’m not gonna be killed for it. What if the only way for us to progress is to be out and proud about it? As long as I’m ashamed of it, other people will be too. But if I tell everyone, and people don’t like it, then it’s their loss.”

“Definitely their loss,” Gwen enthuses. “But I know you’re not really convinced by that.”

“Well, no,” he says, “because maybe I owe it to myself to make myself convinced.”

“You can only do what you feel like. You can only tell the people you want to tell.” That’s how he’s always worked, and she knows it. Meet new people, get to know them, tell them if they didn’t shoot derogatory comments out of their arses; that was the protocol, and it worked. It doesn’t feel enough anymore, though. He’s thought this through too many times to recall, but he always took away the same idea: _nothing feels enough anymore_.

“And, what if,” he supposes, speaking carefully, “I want to tell someone, but don’t. That’s cowardice, not better judgement.”

(He can’t forget the look on Dan’s face. The bruise betrayal stamped into his jaw. The familiarity Phil couldn’t find. The confusion that didn’t fade to nothing, no matter how far into his gaze Phil searched. _You’re a coward, Phil Lester,_ they tell him, _and now look what you’ve done._ )

“You’ll have to be brave,” Gwen confirms. “But everyone does, sometimes, in order to do the things they want to do. I don’t think that means you should go yelling it from the rooftops, though.”

“Perhaps it does. Maybe all my ‘instinct’ is cowardice. I should tell everyone, and if they don’t like it, it’s their loss, like we said.”

“You can’t let such simplistic and idealistic thinking affect you,” she warns. “You have to do what’s good for you.”

“Part of me does just want everyone to know,” he confesses, so quiet the sound of his tongue against his teeth is the same volume as his words. “It’s hard, being so powerful and yet having to act normal.”

“I’m sorry.”

“So am I. But it’s not that simple.”

“Nothing is ever that simple,” she agrees. “God, I feel awful for trying to give you so much advice.”

“You’re just trying to help.” He bumps his shoulder with hers.

“You don’t have to listen to me, ever. You know what’s going on in your own head, you know what it’s like. I can never know. Only you know what’s best for you. You have to do whatever will make you happiest.”

“I thought I knew what that was. Now…”

“No one wants you to transform your ethics for the salvation of the human race. You…” She sounds on the verge of breaking, but pauses to regather herself. “Do what you want, and fuck anyone and anything that suggests otherwise.”

“Except the law.”

“Of _course_ , except the law. The day I encourage misconduct or felony is the day I die.”

She holds him close, and he lets her. He allows himself to picture a possibility where she is right, where it doesn’t matter what he chooses or does, as long as it’s what he wants. That possibility seems so liberating.

This is a chance for him to reassess his choices, but that doesn’t mean he has to change them. He has to be true to himself, has to do what’s best for him, and has to find a balance between them; between truth and protection, openness and tact. If Dan was hurt only because of the lying, not the magic itself, perhaps that means his balance went askew, but it doesn’t mean his reasons were badly judged or corrupt. In general, his approach is sound: tell those you trust, lie by omission to those you don’t. But this time, he kept it a secret too long. It had been clear from the get go that Dan viewed honesty and efficiency highly. It should have been clear that waiting too long to divulge the information would only result in grief.

He’d known all along that he wanted to tell Dan, but couldn’t; the fault came when he miscalculated the line between ‘couldn’t’ and ‘wouldn’t’. He couldn’t tell how Dan would react; he wouldn’t put Dan in a position where he had to choose between him and his father; he couldn’t tell how safe he would be; he wouldn’t risk it. The better solution is obvious in hindsight, but in that situation, Phil was doing his best. Perhaps it isn’t his fault. Perhaps it’s no one’s fault. Perhaps it would always end this way.

A possibility: by always knowing that part of him existed, he was true to himself after all. A possibility: this isn’t the end of all the values he used to live by. A possibility: doing what’s good for him is the way forward, but some people - the people who are good for him - are worth the risk.

This isn’t a raincheck, this is reassurance.

If he follows this possibility, his goal won’t be to end up where he started, but to uphold the principle perfectly: pursue a clear judgement. If personal attachment makes the judgement harder, if it requires pushing past fear to get to full faith, then it only means they are worth the risk.

He is himself with everyone, but he needs to be his full self with those he loves. He won’t lie to someone like Dan again.

(There will never be someone like Dan again.)

As for the rest of the world - well. He’ll happily tell it, when it’s ready for him.

The possibility seems so liberating. He could guide himself towards it, eventually. He thinks he will.

“I did what I thought was best,” he interprets, tipping his words into the swirling silence. “And maybe that decision came from fear, but maybe it also came from a good place. A wise place.” He looks to her, and she nods, her cheek hollowed from where she’s biting into it. “There doesn’t have to be a right and a wrong, does there?”

“No.”

“Do you think I was wrong?”

“You had opportunities to tell him, and you chose not to,” she decides. “Was that the wrong choice? We can’t tell. But you had your reasons, and they’re valid.”

He closes his eyes. “Does that mean Dan’s in the wrong? Is he unreasonable to react like this?”

“I don’t think he knows exactly how he’s reacting. Just like you don’t.”

“But is he unreasonable?” he presses.

“You both have your reasons.”

“What do you think, though?”

“Phil…” she sighs, reluctant.

“Please. I won’t be hurt. I need to know.”

“I think,” she says, “that right and wrong don’t belong in a situation like this. This decision wasn’t made for those who were right and those who were wrong, only those who could take it well and those who couldn’t.”

He opens his eyes. “No one’s reacted as badly as him,” he sulks, and then feels awful for doing so.

“You mean a lot to him.” Phil scoffs, Dan’s look of disgust and betrayal ever present in the back of his mind. “You _do._ Whatever his reaction, it was always going to be one of the extremes, and knowing Dan, is it really a surprise that it would be like this?”

Phil thought the exact same thing while cursing himself for failing to predict the consequences, but it feels better to hear it from someone else. The loving mess of righteousness, passion, and self-doubt that made up Dan Howell was programmed for anguish in a circumstance such as this.

“I suppose,” he replies.

“I’ve never seen you react this badly, either,” she adds. “The pair of you are one hormonal mess.”

“It’s because we’re writers.”

“No, I’m sure you became a writer because of your hormones.”

He lets himself grin. He prises himself from her arms, and nods to himself. “I’d love those cupcakes now.”

“Me too.”

-

Phil meets Jack outside the airport, surrounded by towering piles of luggage that stand around him like bodyguards. After his months of flying, long flights don’t phase him much - he doesn’t look forward to them, God no, he just knows he can survive them - but Jack is clad in so much comfy, tracksuit fabric that Phil feels tired just looking at him.

“Is anyone else on this flight?” Phil asks, tugging his suitcase over a bump in the concrete to join him.

“Nah, they’re all on a later flight. We have to go early to check everything’s in order.”

“ _You_ have to be early. I could be in bed,” he points out, as they walk towards the entrance.

“Bullshit. You’re up earlier than this most days voluntarily.”

“But this morning I wanted to be in bed.”

Jack grimaces, clicking his tongue. “Tough shit, mate.”

“Aw,” Phil says, with very little emotion. “Thanks, dude.”

“No problem, bro. Think of this as seizing the day.”

Dodging a family of four, Phil glares at him. “Fuck you.”

“Aw, c’mon, where’s your enthusiasm?” he goads, elbowing Phil gently in the ribs. His grin is wide and teasing.

Phil pulls his teeth into a sickly smile, and chirps, “Fuck you!” in a singsong voice. He even punches the air afterwards.

“There you go,” Jack says appreciatively. “Now cheer up, you bastard.”

Phil grunts. Jack’s relentless, explicit optimism is infectious at the best of times, and abrasive at the worst. This is somewhere in between. “Are you this rude to all your crew?”

Jack shakes his head. “Just the whiny ones.”

Phil knows he’s being wound up, and he knows Jack doesn’t mean it, so he simply repeats “thanks bro” and yanks the elastic cord of Jack’s sweatpants as an act of revenge.

-

Though he didn’t go to New Zealand during his tour, Phil thinks that, perhaps, Australia should have prepared him a little for the scenery of its neighbour. He knows this: the houses are the same, painted smoothly white and with open porches; the cities have the same arcing coastlines and skyscrapers with teeth-white lights. Combined with what he’s seen on TV shows and Google, he figures he knows roughly what to expect.

He is wrong. This isn’t urban Australia - this is rural New Zealand.

The first hour or so of the car journey from the airport to their accommodation is familiar territory, to a certain extent, but with every mile gained and every suburb left behind, the world’s limits bend and break in front of Phil’s eyes. By the time they leave the city truly behind, they sit in the pocket of the early hours of the morning, and the light unrolls the scape before them. Where before they travelled through false light and shadow, they are now pinned to the sights by soft sunshine.

The vastness; the sheer vastness of it. That is what hits him first. It is startling. This isn’t the English countryside, split it into squares, cut raw from cattle’s teeth, wired with telephone poles; this is vast, unadulterated wilderness. The trees and the foliage meander over the roll of the glacial valleys, taking the space they want - they are not cramped. The countryside lasts for as long as the eye can see, and farther than that. A light fog carries the night over into morning; a white blanket keeps to ground level, and above it he can see the drowsy heads of mountains. Rather than a solid thing, the fog is an unpredictable web of wisps that tumble down the valley’s sides. The divine band of the Milky Way remains in the pinkish suds of the sky, but only barely - an exhale of light, a layer of condensation.

Phil watches it all through his window. He tilts and cranes and shuffles to take in as much of it as possible. He’s impossibly tired, but it’s even more impossible to feel it. He’s awake.

Here, magic feels like it belongs. Here, he doesn’t feel like a burden or a misfit, but a part of a supernatural ecosystem.

His mouth is open with awe, as if they could work like his eyes and help comprehend fully what he’s seeing, as if the sights could dissolve into the ether and flood down into his lungs.

“I warned you,” Jack remarks, breaking their silence. “Indescribable.”

“You say that like you’ve been here before.” Phil won’t take his eyes away from the window.

“Only through Google Images, mate,” he says, but even the indifference in his voice can’t hide what the rest of him betrays him as. Jack is as stunned as Phil is.

A house stands, solitary, in the haze. The sun breaches the horizon and pours more and more light into the stillness. The car takes a gradual turn, and heads for the mountains. Above, the sky is dusty but filling with colour; below, the mountain side spills down and down into the cloud. Edging around the peaks, the road teeters on the risk of falling, too. As their altitude increases, the fog thins; until, as they start their descent on the other side, it is pulled apart by delicate fingers, reels of cotton unravelling down into the valley.

And there is the lake.

Its water reflects the grey-blue of the weather perfectly. Mountain peaks and lonesome trees and bodices of cloud all swim together on the surface. Far in the distance are more mountains, shredding the clouds into bronze-red tatters; leading them to the lake, the road is a silver thread cutting through the greenamberyellowred of the terrain. Even in the feeble light of dawn, he can detect the potential of the colour. In full light and in clear weather, the shades will be saturated, and will pulse as the valley’s beating heart.

The mountain tops bleed.

“That’s us,” Jack whispers to him, motioning to a cluster of buildings kneeling in an outcrop of rock. The lake is so impressive in size that Phil feels he could jump into it from where he stands; the lodge, then, can hardly be more than two hundred metres away. A copse of elegantly slender firs watch on beside it; the land in front is open and empty, except for what looks like a forest of flowers. “That’s where we’re staying.”

“How?” Phil breathes. “How did you find this place?” It feels like a secret, the tranquil kind, tucked between the ribs of a mountain range.

“I don’t know.”

“How could you afford this?”

“Phil!” Jack chastises. The whisper hisses.

“It’s a valid question! I can’t believe you inviting me here for free isn’t a loss to you and your budget.”

“Nature is free, Phil,” Jack explains. Neither of them are looking at each other anymore: the lake and the lodge are coming closer and closer.

“People charge thousands for a view like this.”

“And these people aren’t. It’s all covered _easily_ by the budget. Stop worrying. I’ve already told you about the horse, haven’t I?”

Breaking his gaze away from the view, Phil rolls his eyes at him. “Yes.”

“Then my point is made.”

-

The white paint of the lodge glows, almost eerily, in the sunrise. Beside it is indeed a mass of flowers, tall and slender and painted magnificent shades of purple and pink; a few hundred metres in every direction, the fog swallows up all light. It’s thicker than before: they stand in a basin, and someone has pulled the plug on all the colour. Phil turns his attention to his home for the next few weeks: the lodge itself consists of perhaps half a dozen smaller huts married together by narrower passageways. As the building carves into a hillside, the front stands on stilt-like foundations, while the back sits neatly in the grass. Compared to some retreats he’s seen - villas with swimming pools, hotels with rivers curling around the corners - the setup is incredibly frugal; it’s the pureness and simplicity, though, that lends it its charm. The tranquility of isolation and the potency of the view make up for it - more than make up for it, even. The acknowledgement that the landscape speaks for itself is better than any spa or water park could be.

The middle of the cabins, from which the others stem out, is flanked by small windows and a door, a sign above reading _check-in_. The car pulls up on the dirt track outside it.

“Is anyone else staying here?” Phil asks, falling against his door to open it.

“We booked the whole place out. This place only has twenty-something rooms.”

Phil trudges around to the boot, helping the driver heave out his suitcase. “And how many of us are there?”

“Barely twenty-something.”

“Am I expected to know all their names?” Phil squeezes his eyes shut and pouts, an expression of histrionic despair.

“Every name you remember equals one day of meals.”

“Well, I’m fucked.”

“Sorry to hear it. Thank you!” Jack says this to the driver, who lifts a hand to them before closing his door; the engine catches, the wheels drift along the dirt, and the car drives steadily away.

“How did you convince him to drive us all the way here?” Phil watches the dust trail as the car leaves; the fog means he can’t do it for very long, so he turns his attention to Jack instead. The cold starts to take effect, and he squares his jaw as he awaits an answer.

“It’s kind of his job, Phil.” Jack barks a laugh. “I didn’t just pick up a random guy off the street.”

“I know, I know!” Phil flaps an arm at him. “But in London, a several hour taxi drive would cost hundreds.”

“This is New Zealand, though.”

“Lay off, alright, I’m tired,” he defends himself, and rubs his eyes. God, he falls like he could fall apart right here; there’s an almost magnetic pull tugging at him - or, more, his magic, as if it’s aching to flow out of him into the ground, in the way electric current flows through an earthed object.

“Stop worrying about it.”

“I’m not. Can we go in now, please? I’m fucking freezing.”

“Yeah, c’mon.” Jack picks up his luggage and heads for the door, Phil not far behind him; at their approach, an automatic light flickers on. Phil blinks harshly. Jack knocks his knuckles against the door, and seconds later a shadow falls across it. The door opens without a sound, and the owner steps out: a woman dressed in ironed dungarees and heavy boots, her hair cropped short, her face bright despite the early hour.

“Thank you for waking up for us,” Jack greets immediately, flashing one of his gentleman smiles and holding out a hand.

Taking his hand and giving it a hearty shake, she says, “It’s no problem, love. You must be Jack.”

“Yeah, I am. Hi. This is Phil.”

“Hello,” he says on cue, meek but polite. The effects are wearing off, leaving him empty and unsupported.

“Morning, both of you. I’m Miriam. Let’s get you inside and into a bed, yes?”

Jack looks back at Phil, who doesn’t need to nod to show he very much likes the idea. “That sounds great,” Jack enthuses. “Lead on.”

The inside of _Mildew Lodge_ (Phil learns its name from the bunting hanging above the desk) is as clean and charming as its outside; a string of multi-coloured bulbs line the walls of the lobby, and soft hues alight on the desk and the pinboard behind it; from what Phil sees and registers, the walls are painted a powder blue, and remain empty of art or other decor as they are lead through corridors to their room. The lights are on a dim setting, so his fatigued brain isn’t shocked by the brilliance.

Other than a fake fireplace on one wall, the room is similar to any other holiday home room: wardrobe painted cream, two single beds with a gangway of carpet separating them, bedside tables and lamps at one end. A TV sits on a wide desk, under which is a mini fridge. Finally, a door leads into a tiny toilet and shower room.

“I’m too tired to react to that,” Phil says, as Jack starts stripping in front of him.

“And I’m too tired to be offended by that.”

Sluggish, Phil empties one of his smaller bags onto the floor and picks through its contents to find his sleep clothes, and bundles them up in his arms. “Why are we sharing, anyway, I thought we booked the whole place out?”

“We did, but most of the rooms aren’t ready yet. Be grateful, alright, and make sure you get your eight hours.”

“Sounds more like _you_ need your beauty sleep,” he retorts, and shuts himself in the bathroom. He changes as quickly as he can without falling over and swirls some water around his mouth; when he emerges again, Jack is a dozing lump under the covers. With one forlorn look at the floor - it would be easy to tidy if he could use his magic, but now is not the time for overcoming fears - Phil pushes his own sheets aside and falls onto the mattress. His eyes smart in pain, and to finally close them, to finally have something over than an aeroplane chair or his own limbs holding him up, is a relief.

-

When Phil wakes, an analogue clock on the wall opposite tells him it’s a little after three o’clock. He’s had more than eight hours, but his body clock disputes the fact, so as he pushes himself off the mattress with little tact, his head swirls with narcotic. The other bed is empty, Jack’s bags piled up and toppling over the duvet.

As he goes through to the bathroom, washes the sweat from his skin, brushes his teeth, and uses the loo, the feeling persists. As he changes, as he picks up all the items he dropped, as he puts them back in the bag and surveys his luggage, the feeling persists.

It reminds him of standing up too fast and the blood dropping to his feet. It’s a feeling that sloshes around his head like water and pounds in his head like electricity.

After a moment, he lowers himself back down on the bed. His arms are slack on his lap. He shuts his eyes, frowning, and tunes into the sensation. He’s had jetlag before, and it was never like this; part of him wants to return to slumber, and this isn’t that, either. This is separate - not a feeling, but an _emotion_ , or the hub of an instinct fired into life. With staggering intensity, it fills his head, until everything is _this_ : a hunger, a disquiet, a denouement painfully near to its conclusion. A whole grimoire melted down and poured over him, until his skin burns.

He feels he should go outside. He needs food, and probably a paracetamol too, but this comes first. Until it goes, he won’t do anything else - it’s driving him insane, meaning it’s important. It’s like he’s separated from himself, but he is himself. But he also knows he could be much _more_ than himself, there’s an energy source plugged into his heart but something is causing a faulty connection.

He feels he should go outside. He doesn’t know quite why. The thought appeared, with no before nor after, and it won’t go away.

Fresh air should be good. Clear his head a bit.

A justification found, Phil doesn’t feel so afraid to listen to the thought and make his way outside. The memories from last night - early morning, he supposes - were never strong, and have inevitably collapsed into snatched images, but his feet still walk the path to the outside like it’s a well-trodden track. The sound of Jack’s laugh trips and falls into his ears, coming out of a door he assumes leads to the dining room. Other people must have arrived.

Clicking away on her keyboard, Miriam sits at the front desk. Phil smiles cordially to her and motions to the door. “May I go outside?”

“Knock yourself out, darling,” she says, raising her eyes over the top of her computer. “You don’t have to ask.”

“Thank you,” he says, but the words have barely left his mouth, clipped short by his teeth as he clacks his jaw shut and hurries to the door. Impossibly, the sensation is even stronger. If he doesn’t get some fresh air soon, he’s going to combust.

When his feet touch down on the soil, the cry goes quiet. When he gets a lungful of that endless air, the charge is dispelled. When he sees that sylvan scape, the urge is fulfilled. The power doesn’t flow out of him. It flows into him. His potential is redrawn, way above his head.

Last night, he was struck with the sense of belonging, of magic living on the surface of the water and in the boughs of the trees. It appears it was not just an impression, but a reality. Somehow, this place is captured with magic - not that it is bewitched, either, but that magic itself grows from the grass seeds and the tree roots. This is nature without mankind, the origins of the world still living and breathing their ages away.

Now he knows why he wanted to be outside: not for the fresh air, but for the completeness. The fullness. This place is a power source, and this close to it, his body needed to take the few steps necessary to complete the circuit. Everything is three times bigger, three times more powerful, three times more eternal.

The energy surges through him. Beckoned to use it, to cast a spell, nicks him with a cut of pain. He wishes for free reign of himself again, but his experience built up a barrier he can’t quite bring himself to break. The notch joins a multitude of others he has collected over the few weeks. This time is different, though. This time, he feels like is strong enough that the pain doesn’t mean anything to him. Maybe, in this state, he could overcome even his own mind.

Maybe. Maybe.

The connection and the discovery that comes with it are so monstrous in size, but also calming and soothing. Hence, he can put it aside and turn his eyes to the surroundings.

In full daylight, he can appreciate the view totally; the autumnal bloom of foliage is ablaze, the colours saturated but deferential, not too much but just enough to nudge and startle. On a shelf of cloud, the sun rests, the beams split and spilling down into the lake, pouring over distant mountains; the sky gushes watery blue. He can see now that the mountains closest to the lake’s shore are more like oversized hills, lush with grass, smooth except for rivulets of shadow oozing through the ledges. He sees them twice: once up in the air, the second time balancing on the gentle crests of the lake’s water. The grass turns into dirt, and then round pebbles at the water’s edge. The field of flowers look even more whimsical and mighty as they drift in the breeze, their colours delicate, their petals dainty.

With the rich timbre of the hills, the beatific weep of colour from the mountaintops, and the cupful of mist that still swirls in the distance, the scene looks understandably Tolkienesque, he decides. And so, predictably, he is reminded of Dan.

Phil waits for the shot of pain. It comes, sharp and tender, and he braces himself against it. He closes his eyes, fixates on it, and ensures that he feels it. He doesn’t distract, doesn’t wait for it to ebb. It’s okay. He’s allowed to miss him. This is okay.

It hurts, and it hurts, and it hurts. The valley doesn’t change that. It likely doesn’t even increase his tolerance; it’s just a side effect of its power - an inebriation of sorts, or a burst of confidence from finding a long-lost home.

Phil holds onto the memories for a while. The charged ground and myriad of wildlife all vying for energy around him augment it, somehow, so that ignoring is a much worse plan than listening.

He doesn’t try to do magic. Just because he could, doesn’t mean he will. It’s too sudden.

The clatter of the door behind him sends a shatter through his reverie; Phil flicks his eyes behind him, and, seeing Jack stride out towards him - bleary eyed but cheerful - he turns back to the hills.

“You alright?” Jack asks him, coming up to stand beside him.

“Tired, but okay.” Phil hooks his fingers in his pockets.

“Jetlag’s a bitch,” Jack agrees, grimacing. “But don’t worry, you get your own room tonight.”

“Well, thank God for that,” he intones, squinting into the sunlight. “Have other people arrived?”

“A couple,” he discloses. He shifts his weight onto one leg with a rustle of fabric. “More will come later, in time for the party.”

“Party,” Phil echoes.

“It’s more of a gathering,” he amends. When Phil raises a disgruntled eyebrow, he continues, “A group of people standing around in a dining hall with finger-sized snacks.”

“I take it I have to go?”

“Of course! I’m introducing you to everyone. You’re an important part of our team.”

“An important part that comes and goes from set to do their own thing.”

“That’s your job description. You’ll be fine. It’ll be fine.”

“It’d be more fine if I knew what the film was about,” Phil reminds him.

“Alright, alright, I’ll get the damn script to you.”

Phil nods, and they both turn their full attention back to their view. A fish sends a glistening ripple running through the surface of the water; the sun blooms through a cloud and the green smolders.

“Are you sure you’re not filming the next Hobbit film?”

“I asked him the same thing.” Phil turns in surprise at the unfamiliar voice; unbeknownst to him, the door had opened again, and a stranger - it must be one of the crew - has come out to join them. She looks decidedly more tired than Jack, her dyed hair crumpled in it’s style. Sticking out a hand, she introduces herself, “I’m Jo, assistant director.”

Her grin fills her face. Phil takes her hand. “Phil. So you’re important, then.”

“I also have to work with this idiot,” she points out, jutting her chin out at Jack, who snaps a laugh. “So there’s that.”

“You win some, you lose some,” he says sagely. Jo laughs keenly.

“Tell me about it.”

“If you’re done bitching,” Jack cuts in, but he only looks amused, “I’m going to get you that fucking script.”

-

Over the next day or so, Phil is introduced to people intermittently. Jack has him practically cradled under his elbow in bursts throughout the gathering, taking him round to different groups of people and brandishing him as if he’s famous. Knowing Jack, and his ability to talk about his friends to anyone who will listen, he very well might be - if it counts as fame. Which it doesn’t. But Phil is still flattered.

He does his best to remember them all. There’s Jo and Danny and Eliza, who together form some combination of directing and production; Ethan has red hair and works with a camera, he thinks, but he might be getting confused with Lexie; Isy and Jon and Oskar were all chatting when Jack interrupted, but he doesn’t quite recall who does what, or which is Jon and which is Oskar - Isy is welsh and her hair goes down to her waist, so she’s easier to remember. The list goes on, and the best he can do is recognise faces from somewhere, but can’t keep a name to a face. He tells Jack this under his breath.

“It’ll come to you. You’ve got three weeks to get sick of them.”

Next, Jack introduces Phil to PJ. They both go along with it, overly sarcastic with a quirk to their polite smiles, because it would be in poor taste not to. Once Jack leaves them, they hug and take the time to catch up.

-

The second day, he finds the time to read the script in its entirety. The film turns out to encompass ghosts, murder, philosophy, and humour, in a way that is both mind-bending and interpretable. He isn’t spectacularly surprised - it’s quintessentially Jack - just scrawls a few notes and thoughts down in the margins, and heads off to find him.

-

In the days that follow, he settles into his routine: oscillating between film set work and writing work, waking up at random times as his body clock adjusts, feeling the inexorable buzz through his being.

As far as film work goes, he takes each day as it comes - along with the not so subtle persuading from Jack. He has free reign, but Jack knows what he wants support on and where he needs particular people, so Phil does his very best to accommodate him. Besides those scenes, there are particular ones he has his own ideas on, or ones he wants to see, so he goes along to those and observes, only offering criticism when it looks like he’s needed; Jack always thanks him profusely afterwards, so he assumes that the arrangement is working and continues it. It isn’t an annoyance. The main actors, Jon and Will, are incredible at their job (most of the time, Phil finds himself too enthralled in the story to consciously find feedback or help to give), and while most of the film is set in the surrounding hills, some of it requires travel, so Phil does as Jack tells him and takes the opportunity to see more of the country. PJ’s job as production designer means he is constantly behind the camera, surveying and frantically jotting down notes; Phil’s time on set is spent beside him.

The crew are charming and entertaining. Jack is proven right, as Phil learns all their names after three days, and forms friendships with all of them in four. In the evenings, they all eat in the dining hall, or - if it’s warm enough - outside: the gathering parked in the lee of the copse of trees, the embers of a fire smoldering in the centre.

Each single room has a small porch: a deck of wooden slats, demarcated from the grass and flowers by a fence. The lodge meticulously does not encroach the wildlife, instead staying and thriving within its self-set limits. Phil does most of his writing out here. Especially in the dusk before their evening meal, the cool air and darkening sky provide the perfect conditions for focused work. His creative block ends in an explosion of words, calming into a steady torrent of ideas. Thus, the novel blooms at his fingertips; the faults and gaps he left find themselves fixed, his ideas more meaningful and articulate than could be pictured before. The deadline isn’t a threat anymore, just a simple, realistic fact.

(Miraculously, the lodge has internet connection. It’s dodgy, which doesn’t prove much of an issue, as Phil doesn’t use it often. In his solemn moments, or his curious moments, he keeps an eye on rumour circles to see if Dan’s dating anyone new. The media says the answer is no, he isn’t.

That shouldn’t comfort him, really, but it does. Maybe.)

He misses home. The London atmosphere evades him; it’s a struggle to stay in contact with Gwen and his family. But he doesn’t regret leaving; every time he steps inside, his body misses the completion the valley brought him. The environment never fails to stun him. Homesickness is merely an unfortunate side effect, one he treats with time spent with friends and a busy day.

-

A week and a half in, the group sit in the dining hall during a break in filming. Chatter bubbles easily up the walls, dissolving into the air; the memory of the cold outside is a spider’s web clinging to his skin. As always, the magnetism of the magic tugs at his insides.

“What do you think about the next scene, then?” Jack targets the question at Phil and PJ, though it isn’t clear, as he’s flicking through a script.

“Dusk is a good choice,” PJ starts off. Phil pulls his steaming mug closer.

“That’s why I made it,” Jack replies. His sarcasm is too boisterous to be hateful.

Ignoring him, PJ continues, “It’ll mean more work for lighting, ‘course, but we really need to get those last few minutes of sunshine. We want only our characters in the spotlight.”

“I agree.” Jack rubs his hands together. “Good, great. Phil? Anything to add?”

Phil stares down at his drink. “Can you get me another coffee?”

“You have a problem.”

“This line, here.” Phil reaches across the table to point at the script. “I think it should…” At the far end of the room, the door swings open, the movement diverting his eye.

The figure who emerges snags his attention. His heart slams into his chest and judders to a halt.

The noise of the dining room explodes in his ears, going on and on and on. How could they continue at a time like this? He needs to focus, needs to see, needs to _know_. He pushes his palms into the table and cranes his neck, strains his eyes, grappling for purchase and protection as a fleet of feelings - feeble, fevered - rains down on him.

The room isn’t too large, but it isn’t small, either. At this distance, it’s impossible to tell if it’s certainly...him. It could be anyone. He can’t even see his face yet, there’s no way to tell…

PJ taps him on the elbow. Both him and Jack are staring attentively at him, their backs to the door.

“Is - Is that…?” It’s the last thing he wants to ask, but he asks it anyway. There’s nothing else: just him, and the figure hovering at the door. Two ends of the same piece of twine, bullet and target, the start and the end. PJ frowns at him. Phil feels all thought vaporize from his head. To him, there is nothing but the other end, the bullet, the end.

It’s the last thing he wants to ask, but he has to ask it, or face silence.

It’s like the feeling the valley gives him, but the opposite: antagonist, not salvation, draining, not filling, zero, not infinity.

“Who?” Jack twists around in his seat. “Oh, Dan! Perfect, I was wondering when he’d turn up. Excuse me.” Grabbing the script in his fist, Jack rushes along the length of the room. He greets Dan with a thump on the back, offering the script to him and laughing loudly at something he must have said. Dan is shaken into startling clarity - Phil can see the steel-capped smile, the glint of his eyes.

Phil’s eyes strain with trying to see. His mouth hangs open. All activity leaks out of him - a foreign poison tips a vacuum into his chest.

“Phil?” PJ prompts, glancing between Phil and Dan, his eyes worried away at the edges.

It’s a spark to gunpowder. One moment, he’s too stunned to talk, corroded by the sight of him across the room. The next, feeling comes flowing back like it’s injected. Ghost after ghost come filing into his head and crowd the back of his mind. Just obscurities, nothing solid, nothing he can stamp out; a flaming impulse like repulsion throws him into action mode. Clamping his fingers around PJ’s wrist, he ducks lower to the table and hisses to him, “What the fuck is happening?”

His consciousness is in the grey zone. He’s not quite sure how he feels about this. Each reaction fills his periphery as swirling, murky fog. He daren’t look, because observing would only make them more real.

Taking his gaze away for the seconds it takes to ask PJ the question is too long for him, and his eyes fly back over PJ’s shoulder to the door. To Dan and Jack. They’re still chatting away. Dan has a bag thrown over his back, another at his feet. His clothes are wet from the fine rain outside.

His jacket is still in Phil’s cupboard.

“Dan’s here to help Jack film.” PJ’s answer is slow and steadying as he processes the circumstance.

By chance - it must be by chance - Dan’s gaze travels around towards them. Phil pulls himself down lower.

“Did you _know_ about this?”

“No.” Phil sets his jaw. “I _didn’t_ ,” he insists. “I knew he invited friends, but I didn’t think…”

“You didn’t think he’d dare,” Phil finishes. The zap of energy drains away again, and he slumps. Doubles over, his hands over his stomach.

“Something like that,” PJ agrees, soft, when it’s clear Phil has nothing more to say. “I’m sorry.”

They’re still talking. Dan looks so clean, so careless. So unperturbed. Porcelain. Painfully pronounced, Phil can feel each boundary and every tear of his own corpse.

“He doesn’t know I’m here, does he? He wouldn’t have come if he knew I was here. Would he?”

It’s not a reopened wound. It’s a new one. Messily cut, a shallow slice that stings and stings. He was prepared to recover slowly. He never expected to see Dan again.

“I don’t think so,” PJ replies. It’s the answer Phil expected, but it still hurts, to know his presence should repel Dan like that. Under that perfect exterior, there is a volcano.

“What is Jack playing at?” he spits. “What’s he trying to achieve?”

“You’re his friends. He probably wanted you both here, and didn’t want one of you to cancel because…”

“Because of what? Some dumb fallout?”

“No.” Though PJ offers no further protest, his point is undisputable. There’s far more meaning and intent delivered in that one syllable than he could say, and to receive it makes the emptiness Phil feels even more unbearable. This isn’t a simple dilemma, but he feels so two-dimensional. So empty. Memories sting, magic stings, his wounds sting.

Their conversation settling into its conclusion, Dan picks his bag back up and disappears out of the room. Phil doesn’t wait to watch him go: he sets his sights, instead, on Jack, who wanders back to them slowly. After stopping to talk to Jo, he collapses back onto his seat opposite Phil. Hands empty. Chuffed smile.

“What the fuck,” Phil asks again, “is happening?”

Jack looks at him, quizzically. “What?”

Phil pulls himself back up to meet his eyes. It feels like a string has been nailed into his spine, and it’s the only thing supporting him. “Stop screwing around,” he states, “and tell me what he’s doing here.”

“He’s here to help with the script.”

Phil stays silent. He takes a gulp of coffee, and the lukewarm bitterness sticks in his throat.

“I invited him when I invited you. I couldn’t tell him not to come, could I?”

“You could have told _me_ not to come.”

“Don’t be an idiot, you know I couldn’t have.”

“Do I?” Phil can’t help it; his eyes find the shadows of the doorway before he even knows he’s looked away. His belly feels bloated, flooded with the blood of these wounds and the poisons of this event and the pathos of his loss. Bloated, as if filled with sopping, soggy rose pulp.

“Phil,” PJ says.

Jack stays composed, and looks hard at him. “I wanted you both here. Because you’re my friends, and I need your company as well as your expertees.”

“Do you have a plan for this?” Phil points to himself, because Dan’s not here. He’s here, but he’s not _here_. Dan’s gone.

“You know I’m shit at plans,” Jack replies.

“Why’d he arrive late, then?” he persists, but his voice has slumped into the dip of his elbows.

“Work. He was always going to arrive late,” Jack tells him. After a considered pause, he says, “It’s hardly incriminating. Or relevant.”

“No, it’s not. I’m just trying to understand.” He looks down at his lap. He keeps searching for some sturdy perspective, an _answer_ \- even if it’s only a temporary one - but for all this grappling and rummaging, he finds nothing. Nothing, only desiccated remnants and saturated entrails. His hands are covered with slippery gore.

“I should have warned you.” Jack sighs. “I’m sorry.”

“Can I eat in my room?” He sounds so pathetic, but there’s nothing to transform it into.

“Phil,” PJ says. This time, it’s not a warning, but a sigh, a regret, a pity.

“I’ll still go on shoots. I’ll stay, and I’ll do everything you wanted me here for. I’m -” His voice runs out. “I’m just asking for this _one thing_. Please. I need to know,” he implores, eyes beseeching as he watches Jack.

“You can eat in your room,” Jack decides, grave but understanding. “ _If_ you don’t mind company every once in awhile.”

He has to smile, even if it’s numb. “Sure.”

“Good. I’m glad. And sorry.”

“Are you going to tell him I’m here, or wait for him to work it out for himself?”

“I’ll tell him.”

“What will you say?”

“You know you don’t want to know the answer to that.”

He bows his head. Jack’s right.

“I don’t think,” he says, “I’ve quite comprehended what’s happening.”

“I’m sorry,” Jack says.

“I’m sorry,” PJ says.

“Yeah,” he agrees, a shaking sound. “Me, too.”

Standing, Jack walks round to Phil’s side of the table. He stands above him with a rueful smile and his arms out. “C’mere, you bastard.”

“If anyone’s the bastard, it’s you, Jack,” PJ points out.

“I agree with him,” Phil says, but obligingly walks into Jack’s clumsy embrace.

“You’ll still come to the shoot, though, right?” Jack checks, pulling away after a second and clapping him on the back. “Dan’s not coming, he’s taking a nap.”

“I told you I’d still do everything,” he reminds Jack. He holds his face taut.

“I know, but I wouldn’t have blamed you if you needed some time to...adjust.”

Phil nods. “I’m still coming to the shoot.”

Jack smiles as if Phil’s just told him he’s won the lottery. “Brilliant.” He clambers up onto his chair, holding onto PJ’s shoulder for support.

“What the hell are you doing?” PJ asks. He throws a look Phil’s way, as if to say _typical_ _Jack_.

“My job,” Jack tells him. Then, clapping his hands together, he yells out, “Everybody! We need to be back on set in twenty minutes!”

-

The shoot goes well. They film up in the hills, at the treeline, where the grass comes up to their ankles and the shadows run riot before them. It’s the coldest it’s been since they got here, and the fog has returned: he can see it lying thickly in the basin, but at this altitude it’s more cowardly, evading his hands and recoiling with every step, snagging on tree branches and shaking itself free. Though there is still a crescent of sun peering over the mountains, they abide in tangible darkness: at ground level, retreating blacks and the deepest of navies; in the sky, an aegean blue roils the clouds, and where the lighter sky bleeds through, a shade like slate boils up.

At night, the valley’s magic is stronger. It’s something to do with the secrecy and the freedom: the power is unleashed, unfurling with the snap of a whip. He’s inside, and the feeling is simmering away under his skin. He’s outside, and he snaps into sensation. Normally, the potency would fuel him with spirit, but now the potency only nauseates him. He’s weaker, unstable by the thoughts in the back of his head ( _why is he here do i even want him here i never could see him again but did i want to see him again i don’t know what do i do_ ). He isn’t suited to be a vessel to such magnitude. Not now.

“It looks like they’ve known each other forever,” Phil mutters, watching Jon and Will play their scene out under the dimming canopy of dusk. Jon’s character cracks a joke, and Will’s character laughs splendidly; Will’s character talks, and Jon’s character listens with perpetual interest. Jon’s character grieves, and Will’s character falls to the ground with him.

PJ turns his face to him, already smiling. “They’re good, aren’t they?”

“Let’s go with that.”

PJ laughs quietly, before turning back to the scene.

“You did a good job with the set.” The lights are positioned just so: it sets stark shadows under each crevice and bone, and they stick like plaster; the light has a supple lustre to it, candidly wistful. The characters are dressed in greys and blacks. A type of glitter has been applied to parts of the undergrowth, and although the background is rarely illuminated, when it is, it emits a ghostly glow.

“Thank you. It means a lot,” PJ says, genuine. “These lines are brilliant, too. Your handywork?”

“Parts of it.”

“Well, it’s magical.”

“They’re doing most of the hard work,” he dismisses, waving a hand towards the actors. Afterwards, he adds, despondent, “Magic isn’t really my thing anymore.”

“Don’t be like that.”

“Like what?”

“That. Dramatic and pessimistic. It really doesn’t suit you, or do you any good.”

“Should I pretend everything's okay, then?” he bites, a brief flare of protest. “Does lying suit me better?”

“It will be okay,” PJ replies, sure and simple. “It will be.”

He shakes his head. “We’re never going to be friends again.”

“Maybe not. But you’ll be able to do magic again, one day. And maybe this will never repair, but it will heal, until it doesn’t matter anymore.”

“It will always matter.”

“Matter’s the wrong word, then. I more mean that one day, this won’t be the only thing you have.”

From behind a tree, Jack calls cut. Phil blinks quickly, three times in a row, and cranes his neck to gape at the trees. He can hear the murmur of a trickling stream. “It really is beautiful here.”

-

At dinner time, Phil slinks away into his room. He picks up his book, and decides he’s not hungry - he’ll get food later.

Left alone, his mind wanders. It’s a foolish move, this introspection, but he can’t help it. It’s like the temptation to put your hand in the flame, or exploring an unknown cave. As furiously hot as the flame is, its vigour encapsulates. As terrifying as the cave is - a gaping blackness that only expands - he still finds himself going in.

Where, before, his exact feelings towards this were meagre poltergeists and indistinct trails of smoke in the corner of his eye, they are now shadows flickering on the cave wall: confused and incomplete though they are, their characters are corporal, their origins easier to determine.

Phil is…

Well. He’s not angry. He can’t find any anger left: flakes of distaste where there should be ire, brittle bones of despair where there should be a battle cry. He has his fair share of hurt, of course. It dwells where it always has, tender and sore and routine, but no less _there_.

And he knows he would forgive Dan, and that’s why it’s so awkward to bear, because he knows Dan doesn’t want him. He shouldn’t forgive Dan, or maybe he should. It’s irrelevant, because he will cling to any remedy. He would forgive Dan, but only because he wants to return to how things were. That option is too far gone, now.

There’s no right or wrong, but it doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt. No one’s told him what the right thing to do _now_ is. Is it right to forgive him? Maybe, but he can’t do that now. He needs time to recover - to stabilise - to work out what the fuck he’s doing and who he is.

PJ would tell him that it’s better to just _talk_ to him. “All your questions would disappear,” he’d say, “if you just asked him for the answers.” He’d be right, probably. But he can’t do that now. So he won’t ask.

Entwined with his residual hurt is a new thing. He’s never felt so lonely. Before, he could be as angry and despondent and confused as he wanted, because there was no other option. But now he’s _here_ , and Phil has to navigate around that. His friends will speak to him. Everyone will speak to him, but Phil. After the argument, it was all past tense: _was I right not to tell him? Was he right to react like that? We were friends._ Now, the future drills at his head: _do I talk to him? Will I have to talk to him? We will be strangers._

It’s a new wound.

The knock at the door is polite but definite.

“Yeah?” Phil looks up from the book balanced on his knees.

“Can you open the door for me?” It’s PJ. “My hands are rather full.”

Phil stands, book pressed to his thigh, and pulls open the door. Two plates of food balanced in his hands, PJ cracks him a grin.

“Oh,” he says. “Thank you. You didn’t have to.”

“Jack was getting on my nerves,” PJ explains, offering one plate to Phil and laying the other on the desk.

It’s an obvious lie, but Phil plays along. “Was it making the food taste bad?”

“Exactly that.” He pulls a knife and fork out of his pocket. “Here you go.”

“Do I want to take those?” Phil wrinkles his nose.

“These are a clear pair of jeans, thanks.”

“That’s not a comfort.”

They eat in silence, Phil managing to position his book on his lap and putting down his cutlery to turn the page every couple of minutes. Beside him, PJ eats diligently, one earphone in.

His room is near to the dining room, so after twenty minutes or so a chorus of chairs scraping on linoleum crawls under the door to them, followed by the rise and fall of talk drifting away. Five minutes after that, there’s another knock.

“Yes?”

“It’s me,” Jack says, nudging the door open. “Hi.”

Phil swallows his final mouthful. “Hi.”

Closing the door shut behind him, Jack fills the final space on the edge of the mattress. He sits with his hands in his lap, eyes trained on them both.

“Did you tell him?” Phil asks, staring at the wall opposite.

“Yeah.”

“Did he want to get the next plane out of here?”

“I wouldn’t let him even if he wanted to.”

“He didn’t want to?” Phil’s head jerks round to look at him.

“Nope.” Jack’s eyes look optimistic, but it’s not a good thing. It means Dan doesn’t care anymore, not even enough to stay far away.

“I don’t want to know what was said.” Phil picks up his plate, dusts the crumbs off his lap, and stands. “I’ll take these back to the kitchen.”

-

At the shoot the next day, Phil is talking with PJ and Jack about the complexities of the scene when Dan comes over. Phil doesn’t notice, at first - he’s too focused on what he’s telling Jack - but then he sees PJ’s expression frost over, as if preparing himself for battle. Frowning, he continues to talk but follows PJ’s gaze.

Dan stands a few steps away, glancing at his phone.

Phil finishes his sentence, and goes quiet. Dread builds in him. He doesn’t know where to look, what to say. Becoming overly-conscious of himself, fear spews up and stakes him to the spot.

“Jack?” Dan says, suave as he strides towards them. “I wanted to talk to you about this part of dialogue.”

Jack grins. “Sure! Open fire.”

Phil thinks he should say something more, but all speech fails him. He stares hard at Jack, but Dan is chafing the edge of his vision. He stutters out, “excuse me” before retreating. Dan doesn’t skip a beat.

-

The rest of the day, and the one following, adhere to the same rules: they avoid each other, and avoid, and avoid, and avoid. Hating each other was one thing, but being so harshly ignored is a whole other ordeal. He never thought it could make him feel so inconsequential. Dan’s moved on, and Phil doesn’t mean anything anymore. Phil’s the tombstone of a supergiant. Dan’s still supernova. Phil has to detour and reschedule and divert in order to avoid the burn of his heat.

“I don’t think I can cope with this any longer,” Jack declares, throwing himself down onto the ground next to Phil. Metres in front of him, PJ and Dan are talking, and while he desperately wants to look away, he can’t. Instead, he’s opted for watching and wallowing, basking in his gloom. “I’m sorry, but this is painful to watch.”

“Well, I’m sorry, but you’re gonna have to cope with it for a bit longer.” When he reaches down and tears out a few strands of grass, he can feel his magic pushing at his skin, but he pushes back.

“This is only making you more upset.”

“Really?”

“I only mean,” Jack continues, gentler, “that this is helping no one.”

“It’s all I can do.” His voice is thick with rot.

“Everyone can tell something’s up.”

“It’s obvious and painful, apparently.”

“You should talk to him.”

Phil knows it was coming, so he doesn’t react. He’s numb from the cold.

“If it goes badly, it will be even more painful and obvious,” he cuts back.

“Then you have to make an effort to be civil, or something.”

Phil scoffs. It’s impossible to be civil when you’re both stained red. _Our whole hearts, we said_ , Phil recalls. They didn’t mean that they should tear them out and to pieces. “That’s not gonna happen.

“It’s up to,” Jack says. “I just want you to know there are other options.”

He rests his hand on Phil’s back for a second. Dejected, Phil lets himself lean in only slightly, knowing that if he lets himself go, he won’t stop. Jack sighs, an apology in itself, and hauls himself back up to standing.

Back at the lodge, Phil is on his way to PJ’s room; he is on his way down the corridor as Dan is on his way up. Pressing himself close to the wall far before they come near, Phil dodges out of his way, scrapes an apology off the roof of his mouth, and scurries along. Dan’s jaw is set and his eyes are screwed tight to the doors ahead, but he is so strong and vibrant and _alive alive alive_.

A bitter thought comes to mind: while this argument weighed Phil down, Dan has been set free.

-

“Phil!”

Phil catches himself on the doorframe, and twists round to face Jack. “Yeah?”

“I left my jacket back at the campfire,” Jack says, looking hopefully up at him with his eyes wide.

“That’s a pity, isn’t it? You’ll have to pick it up in the morning.” Phil takes a step forward.

“Phil!” he calls again. Phil stops - he was expecting that - but makes a show of groaning in annoyance.

“ _What_?”

“It’s meant to rain later tonight.” Jack conjures a beguiling smile.

“You want me to go and get it,” he states.

“I’d do it myself,” Jack rushes to say, “but I’m already in my pyjamas.”

Extravagantly, he sighs, shrugging and leaning against the door. “Well, I don’t know.”

“Please?”

Phil meets his eye and they stare at each other for a long moment, Jack collapsing into greater shows of pleading with him. “Fine. Only because you’re my boss.”

“It ought to be because I’m your friend, really, mate,” Jack laughs. “Thank you. It’s the black one.”

“Right.”

“And Phil?”

“What _now_?”

“I’ll have a coffee waiting for you when you get back.” Jack wiggles his eyebrows at him.

“I’d hope so.”

Phil ducks into his room to grab his coat, and following one last glare cast Jack’s way, he shoulders open the door and steps out into the night.

The copse of trees is only a few hundred metres from the lodge, with a beaten track connecting the two together. A few fragments of sunlight remain, and even from here Phil can see the entrance: two particularly sturdy firs, a gaping, impermeable hole opening its jaws between the trunks. Consisting of funereal fir trees and gnarled roots, the copse is of lofty size - large enough for there to be a clearing in the middle - and the barbed treeline claws out into the sky, colliding with a hunk of misted cloud. As a wisp of a breeze whips at his feet, the crowd of lupins rustles with a noise like feathers (a member of the crew told him the flowers’ name, but he can’t remember who.) Phil tugs his collar up and hunkers down into his coat. He watches as the gibbous moon (waxing, tinged gold) shakes off the cloud and gleams brighter.

He steps over protruding roots, ducks under ivy-laden branches, and cracks discarded twigs in two, whistling a distorted tune as he goes. For once, the magic isn’t too terrible to bear: the air is dulcet on his tongue, and the tune of the wind through the branches consoles and comforts. He fancies he can hear the wash of water on the lake shore.

He emerges into the glade, and the sight cuts his ditty short.

The remains of the fire smoulder away in the pit, which is a normal occurrence. What he isn’t expecting is the silhouette standing in front of it, nor for that silhouette to manifest into the form of Dan Howell.

He hasn’t been alone with Dan since the fight. While Dan’s been in New Zealand long enough for him to accept - begrudgingly - that he’s _here,_ and not stored away in the UK, he hasn’t even thought about what he’d do if he had to talk to him. The hushed proximity charges the air; there’s a heavy expectation that he should speak now. When there’s just the two of them, everything feels worse. Worse, with his wounds erupting in searing pain, with the ties he can’t quite sever tugging at him.

Dan’s form is lax, pensive. There’s no sign anything is wrong at all. The sight hurls him into a memory, as if he’s viewing a time from Before.

Maybe, if he leaves now, he can get away with this. Explain to Jack that he couldn’t find his damn belonging, and proceed to lock himself up in his room for the rest of the night.

Another twig snaps under his footing. Dan whirls around. With fallen hope, Phil watches his expression toughen; his scowl contorted by the mesh of moonlight and firelight.

“I’m really sorry,” he hastens to disclaim, to explain his appearance here in Dan’s space. Apprehension seeps through him like sweat. Normally, he would turn and leave, but there is no room to disappear from, no door to leave through. Only him and Dan and the glade of mute trees. “I’m looking for Jack’s jacket.”

Dan diverts his eyes to the floor. “There’s no jacket here.”

“He said it was…”

“It’s not here. I’d know, ‘cause I was sent to get it.”

“But he sent - oh.” His insides fall out of him. “I think we’ve been set up.”

“It would seem so,” Dan agrees, grimly. “And I fucking _bet_ they’re not going to let us back in until we’ve _talked_.”

“Probably,” he realises, with increasing despair. “Um. Shall I…” He flings an arm behind him, the way he came.

“No point.” Dan falls onto one of the wooden benches and supports his chin with his hands. Phil stays in place, unsure of what’s happening; Dan’s told him to stay, but only because there’s no point in trying to get back inside. Dan has now chosen to sit down, after speaking more than two words to him, and he’s _right here_. And he’s still going to be _right here_ until he decides he’s endured enough time for him to be allowed back inside. He looks just as he last did in Phil’s presence: the rough edge of composure, barren of his former gentleness, hardened by some inexplicable emotion. “Sit down, would you? You’re making me nervous,” Dan orders after a moment, making Phil jump. It’s nearly a growl, except it sounds closer to surrender than conflict.

“Sorry,” he says, barely, and falls onto the same bench. He leaves plenty of space in between them.

Dan says nothing more. When Phil dares to steal a glance at him, he sees it’s clear Dan doesn’t plan to say anything any time soon, so he settles down to wait, withdrawing into himself slowly.

A williwaw strikes, blasting the air from Phil’s lungs; the fire withers away under its strength, so only a few shells of embers remain. While the moon recoils behind another battalion of cloud, the light dims to almost complete darkness; shadows skitter close before retreating into the tree cover. Deathly silence strings itself between branches. Although the air was sweet, it has since soured on his tongue; although the magic had, for once, fuelled him, it trembles in him, tremendously, painfully conspicuous. He shouldn’t feel it when Dan’s here in such proximity. He _can’t_. It’s a reason to hate him, wielded clumsily. It’s an axe, a hammer, a shovel. Dan is a relic.

They sit with an electric fence snarling between them. Wanted, unwanted. Found, lost. In the stars, in the gutter.

The wind crumbles away into nothing. Only cold remains.

His heartbeat is skittish. His hands shake in their clasp. He breathes out and out and out -

He so wishes he could talk to Dan. He’s so close. Before, he could reach out with his words and his hands, and hold tight until he had to let go. After, not even his tearful cries can transcend the chasm between them. Everything is stagnant - from the air to the trees to Dan - and it saws away at him. Digs and jabs and bites until he wants to scream.

\- and out and out and out. And, then. Then, he starts to cry.

He doesn’t want to. He desperately pulls at parts of himself, trying to keep himself together, but it’s impossible. For every success, another piece slips away. So he’s forced to stay as silent as he can. He shoves a hand to his lips. He needs to muffle the sound, the grief.

If only it weren’t like this. Dan doesn’t show even a stain of what went on between them, but their relationship is tarnished with it. There’s no going back, no reparation. He so wishes it weren’t like this.

“Why are you crying?” Dan’s words slice through the dark. An ember flares up before extinguishing.

It doesn’t sound like he cares.

There’s no point in lying. “You’re right here,” he says, “but you’re so far away.” Phil doesn’t dare look at him again. It would only ruin him more. He can’t tell if Dan’s crying, too. Probably not.

“I was always _right here_ ,” Dan spits. “It’s not my fault you never realised that.”

“I couldn’t help it!” Phil doesn’t know where it comes from, this sudden burst of angry protest, only that he burns from it. A twisted attempt to save himself.

“What? Like you couldn’t help telling Gwen or Jack? Like you couldn’t help getting mad at me for keeping secrets?”

“I didn’t want it to be like this!” he shouts. It scratches his lungs, but it feels good to experience something other than numbness.

“What the _fuck_ did you want it to be like, then?” Dan yells back. “Did you expect me to take the information _happily_? Was I meant to make it easier for you? How thoughtless of me to be hurt by this!”

The cave shadows have mutated into gargoyles and chimeras, clawed and ferocious. “You could have been understanding!”

“What’s there for me to _understand_? The fact you didn’t trust me? The fact you lied to me? The fact everyone else knows? Or all three?”

“You’re being ignorant.”

“And you’re being bloody _selfish_.” Dan turns on him, glowering in the gloom. “This doesn’t just affect you, you know.”

“You think I _don’t_ know that? I tried my best not to hurt you!”

Dan throws his head back and barks a hysterical laugh. “ _Did you_? How fucking stupid of me, then.”

“I tried. It doesn’t mean I was guaranteed to succeed,” he snaps. “I had my reasons. You were at the centre of all of them. I can only be sorry it didn’t go the way I wanted it to.”

“Sorry’s one word for it,” he retorts, lip curling. His eyes spark with challenge.

“It’s _my_ word for it. I didn’t want this. I never wanted this.”

“Should’ve tried harder, then.”

“But that’s not true, is it? Whenever I ended up telling you, you’d be mad. But I couldn’t tell you from the off, could I? I didn’t even know you.”

“So it’s _my_ fault?” Dan exclaims. “Fuck you.”

“Sometimes it feels like it is.” He regrets it as soon as he says it, wincing from the force. It’s a truth, though, belonging to the more hateful, wrathful parts of him. Dan’s right: it’s selfish, but he needed him to make it easier.

Dan doesn’t respond, just shaking his head over and over.

This is torture. His chest is bursting, and deflating, and crumpling, all at once. Dan didn’t have to do this. He’s such an arsehole. He could at least _pretend_ he cared enough about Phil to be upset. He could at least pretend there’s more to this than the damage to his own righteousness. He could at least pretend he misses Phil, and wants him back. Any of those things, right now, would help him feel a little better. Not fixed - it wouldn’t fix him. But it would prop him up, until he could drag his animate corpse out of here. Arsehole.

Magic wails in his head, calling for attention and closure. A law of nature. Penalty: the end. Phil pushes down at it with his hands every time it rears its head, but it only rises back up.

Phil looks back at Dan, and sees nothing.

“If this is how it’s gonna be,” Phil begins again, when the break in the argument has left his lungs shuddering and his heart knocking, “I think it would be better if I left.”

Bleeding down his cheeks are tears, as pain rushes in his ears. Stumbling, he fumbles his way round to the exit of the clearing. He knew it would be like this. He knew there was no way to make things right again. He knew he couldn’t forgive Dan.

“Phil.”

He’ll never know what it is that makes him stop so suddenly: Dan’s voice, its fury suddenly doused, or Dan saying his name. Whatever it is, Phil stops in his tracks and gradually turns to face him. In mere seconds, Dan’s expression has dismantled into something quieter, mournful.

“Stop,” Dan continues. “Don’t - don’t.”

Phil doesn’t.

He knows he should go back, but he also knows he should stay. Hence, he traipses back to his space on the bench. He sits back down. He stares at the remains of the fire, feeling Dan’s gaze on him before he, too, turns his attention to the ashes.

Silence returns. It pulls to and fro, swinging from the gallows. But there’s a promise at the end of it, he’s sure, so he stays. He lets it run algid zigzags down his spine. Phil’s heart is beating, maybe from Dan’s presence, maybe from their surroundings. The inherent sense of magic doesn’t feel like an illusion, it feels like a fact. His veins hum from it.

He feels it’s his turn to wait, but he has also spent his life awaiting each judgement, and then he can’t stand it any longer. He whispers, “Say something,” and tries to make it sound less beseeching than it is.

Dan doesn’t say something, but another glance his way reveals that he is wrestling with his own thoughts. Phil accepts that, and abandons himself to more waiting: he has offered it, and he can’t accept it for them both.

“Show me something.”

Phil pushes himself more upright. “What?”

“Magic,” Dan breathes. One word. _Show me your magic_.

In his imagination, he’d pondered upon what he’d do in this situation. What he’d show Dan, if he ever asked. What he could do if Dan ever knew what he had, and loved him for it.

His magic soars. There’s no denying it any longer.

“Okay.” In this more reserved species of conflict, Phil feels like he owes Dan something. No matter how long he’s gone without magic, no matter if he shouldn’t follow orders blindly, he owes him this.

The electricity is pushing at his edges. Collecting his nerve for a second, Phil reaches out and scoops some of that magic up; it falls through his fingers, and then he tightens his grip and casts it out into the fire pit. There’s no timber left. The charred square bursts into flames. It feels so bizarre, with Dan’s steady gaze on him the whole time. Performing magic in this augmented reality is uncanny, leaving him doused with a feeling almost like fine sugar. It’s been so long since he performed any spells, even the typical sensation of magic feels unusual on his skin, but he welcomes it back. The fire burns on in front of him, and Phil utters a surprised, relieved laugh.

Dan watches the air go up in flames; Phil watches Dan’s face set alight with gold.

A moment passes, dropping in the uneven beat of his heart.

“Is that meant to be impressive?” The joke is clearly there, present in Dan’s subconscious grin and careering awe.

This calm won’t last long, so Phil proceeds with caution, careful to make it last as long as he can. “I wasn’t sure if it would work.”

Dan looks at him in confusion. “Why not?”

“I haven’t done any spells in a while,” he admits. “Since... Since we, you know.”

Dan frowns, but nods. Looking at the fire again, he says, “I can feel it, somehow, this...energy, and I know it’s magic.” To Phil, he says, “Is it you?”

Phil shakes his head. “It’s this place.” He digs a heel into the dirt. “It’s stronger here.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“Is this what it feels like all the time for you?”

He could say _I don’t know what you’re feeling._ He could say _It’s never as strong as this_. But Dan doesn’t want technicalities, he just wants answers. “Yeah.”

Turning forwards, Dan’s face is cast in plaster - somber and sober and set. “All this time,” he says, “you lied to me.”

Phil ignores the frantic wriggling in his gut. “I never said anything outright. It just never came up. I wanted it to.”

“That’s still lying.”

“Yeah, I know.” Phil bows his head.

Dan exhales, an elongated sound, and closes his eyes. Opens them. “You know, I never hated the magic. I thought I did, but I didn’t. I don’t. I don’t hate you for having magic. It was just that I didn’t know for so long.”

“I know.”

“Okay.”

“If I could have, I would have told you from the start. But I didn’t have a chance. It was too risky.”

Dan nods. “I think I see that now. But I’m still so _mad_ at this whole situation.”

“You’re allowed to be -”

“No, I’m not. I shouldn’t be mad at you. But I am. Even though there was no other way, I hate that you lied. And that’s the wrong reaction to this.”

“No, it’s not. There’s no right or wrong to this.” Phil thinks back to Gwen, and an acute ache scalds his chest, taking him by surprise. “This was never going to be easy.”

“Damn right,” Dan laughs humourlessly. He is so different from when they first met. He’s more jagged, his flaws and passions as prominent as the mountains they’re crouched under. As quickly as his laugh began, it dissipates again; he sobers and lowers his gaze. “I don’t want to live by this.”

“By what?”

“This anger at you. I don’t want to listen to it.”

The idea is so familiar and tangible that Phil’s chest hurts once more, echoing over and over. “We can’t undo this.”

“And I don’t want to. I want this to make us closer, not farther apart.”

Phil digs at his cheek with the heel of his palm. “But you’d have to get to know me all over again.”

“Would I?” Dan challenges. “I know everything else, don’t I?”

“This is a large part of me,” he presses, as much as he hates to disagree, as much as he wants Dan to be right.

“And now I know it. It doesn’t change everything else, does it?”

“It makes me a liar. And a hypocrite.”

“Not if I can understand why you had to do it.”

Slumping his shoulders, he reminds Dan, sullen, “I already told you. It was too dangerous.”

“Not that. The real reasons. Why were you scared?”

Clamping his hands to his knees, Phil stares into the flames and thinks hard. It doesn’t take long before he emerges with one of the answers he had known, really, all along. “I knew you’d have to choose between your dad and me.”

Phil watches Dan swallow, observes the fall of his shoulders. With the moon’s reappearance, silver light filters down onto him, as tentative and fuzzy as he feels. “If you’d’ve told me at the start,” Dan admits, “I don’t know what I would have chosen.”

“And I never wanted to put you in that position.” How oblivious Dan is to him, to all the respect and reverence and rapture he has stashed in him. “I wanted to tell you, but it felt selfish to put you in such a fucked up situation.”

“Ultimately, though, you were always going to have to tell me. If you wanted to. One day, you’d have to.”

“I tried not to think about it,” he confesses. “God, I never wanted things to be complicated between us. We just _worked_ , and it was simple. But if I told you, and you then had to understand and choose and whatever, it would be complicated.”

“Was that really the end-all for you?”

“I didn’t want to lose you,” he says, with all the faltering of a feather balancing on his finger. “And then I did anyway, which was my fault, too. So.”

“No. It’s not. It’s mine,” Dan argues, resolute. His eyes are distant, lost in this labyrinth of a problem. “I never stopped to think - Fuck, I hate this!” The sudden flare in volume makes Phil cringe away, and Dan looks to him with an unspoken apology. “Not you. I hate this. I hate that you were scared and I hate that you thought you couldn’t trust me. I hate that you thought you had to contend with my shitbag of a dad and I hate that I made you think that.” His voice is distorted with despair. Phil shuffles a few centimetres closer to him.

“It was never that I didn’t trust you,” he consoles. It feels like they’re getting somewhere, all the anger burnt into nothing by the flames. His friends were right, then: they just needed to talk. “I promise.”

“But you didn’t feel you could tell me.”

“I _promise_ ,” he repeats.

“Sorry.”

“No, it’s okay, I just -” Phil leans his head back and fills his lungs with cold night air. “I’m trying to explain this without -” _Giving myself away,_ he thinks, _letting you know why I was ten times more scared to lose you_. “Confusing you,” he finishes instead.

“Doesn’t matter.” Dan turns his body ninety degrees, so he’s completely facing Phil. He rests his hands on his lap and looks like he’s going to listen forever, until Phil lets him understand.

“You’re as stubborn as ever,” he remarks, with a gentle grin.

“And you’re just as slow.” Before, this would be when Dan would prod him with a finger. “Please.”

“I trusted you with my life,” he returns to the matter at hand. With the growing flames, the shadows keep a safe distance, but they don’t flit and flee - they sit and watch, calm. A breath of wind ghosts over them, and the whole copse leans in close. “I didn’t want that to change by telling you.”

“What do you mean?”

He dismisses him with a shake of his head. “It’s really dumb.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Fine.” Phil meets his gaze purposefully. “It felt like, if I told you and you reacted badly -” Here, Dan’s eyes darken and his mouth dips, and his own voice falters, so he plows on, “Then that trust would be ruined. Proved wrong, I mean. I had so much faith in you, and I didn’t know what to do with it.”

“ _Your whole heart_ ,” Dan recalls the memory quietly, summoning it as if any disturbance could displace it.

He swallows. “Exactly.” To his right, the fire begins spitting out petals of flame. They pirouette a few metres upwards before dissolving. “I’d given you that. I didn’t want to drive you to breaking it. Wait, no, that’s not a sentence. Um.” He rattles out a nervous laugh; the fire spits, crackles. “I knew I could trust you, and I didn’t want to lose that.”

“And I made sure you did.” The reminder is raw in its sorrow, and it pulls Phil’s wounds open; however, Dan’s appearance is so dispirited and forlorn that he thinks that alone would convince him to forgive him.

“No,” he hastens to disagree. When Dan cocks his eyebrow, he rectifies, “Well. Yeah. But it’s okay now. You had your reasons.”

“But you had yours.”

Phil hums but says nothing.

“What does that mean?”

He settles into his memories, and tells him, “It didn’t feel like I had my reasons. Ask Gwen, I was completely broken over it.”

“What? Why?”

“I was convinced I had lied to you for nothing, and in the process had betrayed who I really was.” He snorts when he hears it aloud. “I _told_ you it was dumb.”

“You did,” Dan agrees, nodding. His smile appears in a split second, and he laughs to himself. “You _did_. But it’s not dumb. I’m...I’m really sorry I put you through that.”

“It’s quite dramatic, though, isn’t it?” Phil says. He means _you’re forgiven._

Dan pretends to think for a moment, pulling his mouth shut to suppress a smile. “It is pretty fucking dramatic. You haven’t changed.”

“I can change, though. If you need me to be less...offensive, I can be.” Phil speaks quietly, tinged with a shame he can’t repress.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Don’t do that. Phil, just...Don’t ever do that.” Phil hadn’t noticed they had got any closer, but now Dan puts his hand on his knee, and he’s leaning forcefully onto him, whole weight tethered to him.

“Are you drunk?” he asks, half concerned, half teasing.

“No, no.” Dan shakes his head. “Just emotional.”

Phil catches a light hold of his waist, just to be sure.

Dan rests his head on his shoulder for a brief second. “I’m sorry.”

Phil leans into him. “I’m more sorry.”

“You bastard, I’m the most sorry.”

“Does that mean we’re okay?”

“Only if you can show me something better than a shitty fire.” Detaching himself, Dan jabs a thumb in the direction of the fire. It’s become more golden, somehow. The colour of Phil’s eyes when he casts a spell. Dan’s cheeks are flushed with the cold; Phil can feel the heat on his own skin. He’s alive again. He’s not some wretched dwarf star, he’s _alive_. Burning. But the sensation is tender despite its strength, a current eddying through him without end.

Phil laughs at the distaste in his tone - it’s so much easier, when it’s clearly jest - and laughs harder when an idea comes to mind. Dan doesn’t urge him farther, just sits and waits with an amused look in his eye.

When a book comes hurtling out of the dark towards him, Dan’s eyes widen in surprise. It’s heading for his arm. At the last second - upon impact - the pages and binding disband into flickering sparks. They alight on his sleeve and glow, comfortable.

“That’s better,” he says, the sarcasm lost in his almost childish interest. Phil watches Dan guide a few embers onto his fingers; he studies them with endless intrigue and wonder, as if he were discovering Phil himself. “Do you always make such macabre jokes? Or are you still bitter?”

“You tell me,” Phil replies.

Dan laughs again, a short and distracted sound. Then he breathes out, brushes the glitter off his jacket sleeve, and kisses Phil.

Phil Lester watches his life reassemble in the ethereal embrace of New Zealand’s autumn night, in the clumsier embrace of someone whom he trusted his whole heart with; witnesses it restart - for while it had never gone away, it had got stuck on one particular spike - with his magic threaded through his whole being.

 

_fin_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey!! i hope you enjoyed this work!! if you did, why not [reblog](http://dantiloquent.tumblr.com/post/153788091631/heart-full-of-headlines) to support me? or leave a comment, letting me know your thoughts! i love seeing who's read my work!! no matter what you do, i'm incredibly thankful to you for reading this to the end. it means the world to me. and, hey, thanks.

**Author's Note:**

> hey!! i hope you enjoyed this work!! if you did, why not [reblog](http://dantiloquent.tumblr.com/post/153788091631/heart-full-of-headlines) to support me? or leave a comment, letting me know your thoughts! i love seeing who's read my work!! no matter what you do, i'm incredibly thankful to you for reading this to the end. it means the world to me. and, hey, thanks.  
> TEMPORARY EDIT: did you enjoy this fic? maybe consider voting for it in the phanfic awards 2016? see [here](http://dantiloquent.tumblr.com/post/155340554441/fic-awards-2016) for details!


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